attitude towards all war is the same as our own. She has no use for its pinchbeck glory, but looks beyond all that and sees what Longfellow saw when he wrote 'Killed at the Ford':
I saw in a vision how, far and fleet,
That fatal bullet went speeding forth
Till it reached a town in the distant North,
Till it reached a house in a sunny street,
Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat
Without a murmur, without a cry.
For the blood-drops on the conqueror's laurel are not from the brow that wears it. During that war of North and South which stirred the conscience of America to its depths the Quaker Whittier sorrowed in his poems In War Time that a democratic people should have no other but the old world's barbarous way of settling its differences, saying, as we are saying at present:
The future's gain
Is certain as God's truth; but meanwhile, pain
Is bitter and tears are salt; our voices take
A sober tone; our very household songs
Are heavy with a nation's griefs and wrongs;
