another, "She sha'n't be heard!" another, "You raise a point of order when he is done, and I will raise another." In the confusion I hear something almost like swearing, but not swearing, for most of those men are "holy men," who do not think of swearing. The confusion continues. Most of this time I am standing, but presently a chair is presented me, and now a new class of comforters gathers around me, speaking smooth, consoling words in my ear while upon the other side are angry disputants, clinching their fists and growing red in the face. Are the former good Samaritans, pouring into my wounded heart the oil and the wine? Listen. "I know you are acting conscientiously; but now that you have made your protest, do, for your own sake, withdraw from this disgraceful scene."
"I can not withdraw," I say; "it is not now the time to withdraw; here is a principle at stake."
"Well, in what way can you better the cause? Do you feel you are doing any good?" Another voice chimes in with: "Do you love the Temperance cause? Can you continue here and see all this confusion prevailing around you? Why not withdraw, and then the Convention will be quiet;" and all this in most mournful, dolorous tones. I think if the man cries, I shall certainly cry too.
But then a new interval of quiet occurs, and so I rise to get the floor. I fancy myself in a melting mood enough to beg them, with prayers and tears, to be just and righteous; but no, "this kind goeth not out by prayer and fasting," and so I stand up again. Directly Rev. John Chambers points his finger at me, and calls aloud: "Shame on the woman! Shame on the woman!" Then I feel cool and calm enough again, and sit down until his anger has way. Again the "friends" gather around me, and there come more appeals to me, while the public ear is filled with "points of order"; and the two fall together, in a somewhat odd, but very pointed contrast, somewhere in the center of my brain. "Do you think," says one, "that Christ would have done so?" spoken with a somewhat negative emphasis. "I think He would," spoken with a positive emphasis. Do you love peace as well as Christ loved it, and can you do thus?"
What answer I made I know not, but there came rushing over my soul the words of Christ: "I came not to send peace, but a sword." It seems almost to be spoken with an audible voice, and it sways the spirit more than all things else. I remember that Christ's doctrine was, "first pure, then peaceable;" that He, too, was persecuted. So are my doctrines good; they ask only for the simple rights of a delegate, only that which must be recognized as just, by the impartial Father of the human race, and by His holy Son. Then come these mock pleading tones again upon my ear, and instinctively I think of the Judas kiss, and I arise, turning away from them all, and feeling a power which may, perhaps, never come to me again. There were angry men confronting me, and I caught the flashing of defiant eyes; but above me, and within me, and all around me, there was a spirit stronger than they all. At that moment not the combined powers of earth and hell could have tempted me to do otherwise than to stand firm. Moral and physical cowardice were subdued, thanks to that Washington delegate for the sublime strength roused by his question: "Would Christ have done so?"
That stormy scene is passed; that memorable time when chivalrous men