To these add those slaughtered in the wars of La Vendée, viz., _nine hundred thousand_ men, _fifteen thousand_ women, and _twenty-two thousand_ children. To this add the victims at Lyons, numbering thirty-one thousand. To this, add those who are recorded thus: “women who died of grief, or premature childbirth, three thousand seven hundred;” and we have a sum-total of _one million twenty-two thousand_ human beings destroyed by violence. How many should be added, as those who died of prison sufferings, or from the pangs and privations of exile, or from famine and from pestilence consequent on this state of anarchy and violence, who can enumerate? At some periods, such was the awful slaughter, that the rivers were discoloured with blood. In Paris, a vast aqueduct was dug to carry off the gore to the Seine, and four men employed in conducting it to this reservoir. In the river Loire, the corpses accumulated so that birds of prey hovered all along its banks, the waters became infected, and the fishes so poisonous that the magistrates of Nantz forbade the fishermen to take them. Thus, in the language of another, “France became a kind of suburb of the world of perdition. Surrounding nations were lost in amazement as they beheld the scene. It seemed a prelude to the funeral of this great world, a stall of death, a den into which thousands daily entered and none were seen to return. Between ninety and a hundred of the leaders in this mighty work of death, fell by the hand of violence. Enemies to all men, they were of course enemies to each other. Butchers of the human race, they soon whetted the knife for each other’s throats; and the same Almighty Being who rules the universe, whose existence they had denied by a solemn act of legislation, whose perfections they had made the butt of public scorn, whose Son they had crucified afresh, and whose Word they had burned by the hands of a common hangman, swept them all, by the hand of violence, into an untimely grave. The tale made every ear that heard it tingle, and every heart chill with horror. It was, in the language of Ossian, ‘the song of death.’ It was like the reign of the plague in a populous city. Knell tolled upon knell, hearse followed hearse, coffin rumbled after coffin, without a mourner to shed a tear, or a solitary attendant to mark the place of the grave. ‘From one new moon to another, and from one Sabbath to another, the world went forth and looked upon the carcasses of the men who transgressed against God, and they were an abhorring unto all flesh.’” Such, my countrywomen, are the scenes which have been enacted in this very age, in a land calling itself Christian, and boasting itself as at the head of civilization and refinement. Do you say that such cruelty and bloodthirsty rage can never appear among us; that our countrymen can never be so deluded by falsehood and blinded by passion?