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Phillips's speech had been all through one to stir deep resentment. The atmosphere of the Music Hall was seething with fierce passion, and it seemed likely enough there would be a rush for the platform when he had finished. If it had come it would have been met. The little band of armed men who concerned themselves about his safety never left his side. But there was no rush. The plans of the enemy were of a different kind. The audience passed quietly out of the hall. A police officer came to tell us that there would be trouble outside. A mob—of course a broadcloth mob—had assembled. What the mob intended only the leaders of it knew, but he assured us that the police were strong enough to deal with it. But he said Mr. Phillips's friends should go with him when he left the hall, and keep with him.

There were, I think, not more than half a dozen of us who were armed—Le Barnes, Hinton, Redpath, Charles Pollen, and one or two others. We told Phillips what he was likely to meet, and that we should walk next to him. When we got to the outer door we found the police disputing with the mob the narrow passage, perhaps fifty yards long, from the hall to Winter Street. It was slow work thrusting these disturbers out, because Winter Street was crowded with the main body of rioters, and there was no room for more. But the police knew their business, and meant to do it, and did it. Inside the passage there was not space enough for an effective attack, even had not the police been too strong. But it took us, I judge, some fifteen minutes to make our way from the hall door to the street.

During this space of time the mob in Winter Street roared at us. They seemed to think we were afraid to go on, and they flung at Phillips such insults as hatred and anger supplied them with—coward, traitor, and so on: with threats besides. Phillips met it all with a smiling face. His hand was on my arm, so that if there had been any nervousness I should have been aware of it. But the pressure of the hand was firm and steady. He was as cool—to use Mr. Rufus Choate's similitude—as a couple of summer mornings. The police who had been a rear-guard, satisfied they were not needed there, had gone to the front.

At first the mob gave little heed to the police. They expected the police, as in Tremont Temple, December 3rd, to be on their side. But this time an officer had command who knew only his duty as policeman. No politics but to keep the peace and protect peaceful citizens. The officer was Deputy Chief Ham. I have since seen a great deal of police work in many parts of the world; in New York, London, Paris, Berlin, and elsewhere; nowhere any better handling of a dangerous mob than this by Deputy Chief Ham. His force was none too large, but his mastery over the mob was never in doubt. In their hand-to-hand struggles in the little passageway the police showed what they were made of. Of Phillips's friends the number had increased as we passed from the platform, but if we had been alone we should have been swallowed up, or we should have been driven almost at once to use our revolvers. But the police were an impregnable wall.

Once out in Winter Street, they formed in a solid square, Phillips and his friends in the centre. The square was never broken. The mob were many thousands strong. There were wild rushes, there was the tremendous pressure of great masses of men, but against it all the police held good. Down Winter Street to Washington Street, along Washington Street to Essex Street, and in Essex Street to the door of Phillips's house, the mob kept us company, oozing and surging slowly on, reviling and cursing all the way. They thought they would have a chance at the house, but the Deputy Chief had taken possession there in advance, and when the door opened we passed comfortably in between the police lines. It had taken us an hour or more from the hall to the house. The distance is a short half-mile.

It had been a murderous mob. Phillips's life was aimed at and had been in imminent danger during that hour. The spirit of murder was abroad. The police warned us. They thought the peril over for the moment, but none the less remained on duty near the house. Men were stopped and asked to state their business. When I returned in the afternoon an officer came up to me but recognized me, nodded, and I went in. I found Phillips as cool as usual, the usual sunshine in his blue eyes. I told him what I had heard from the police, and that I thought his house ought to be garrisoned for the night.

"But who will undertake that?"

"Your friends know there is danger and will gladly come."

He seemed a little sceptical and asked:

"Will you come?"

"Certainly." I explained to him our plans. He went into the back parlour and brought out an ugly-looking pike. "It was John Brown's," he said. No weapon could be more unfit for use in a narrow hall or on winding stairs. It might have a moral effect. It was agreed that three of us whose names are above, should camp out that night in the parlour. When we arrived about ten o'clock we found the table laid, with food and drink for a much larger army. The night passed without alarm, as did following nights, but neither our vigilance nor that of the police relaxed.

During these days, and long after, Phillips walked the streets of Boston with his hand on his revolver. I was sometimes with him. I said one day:

"I am more afraid now they will try insult than injury."

"Don't trouble about that. I can see over my shoulder, and before a man can touch me I shall shoot."

He was a quick and good shot, as I found out next summer, when I used to stay with him in Milton, and we practised at a target.

But the memorable 21st of January drew on, when the annual meeting of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society was to be held in Tremont Temple. Rumours again filled the air, and something more than rumours. I have already said I had friends in the other camp. One of them came to me to beg me to let it alone. "I care nothing about Phillips," he said, "but you are my friend and I must tell you what I know, though I am betraying my own party." "Then don't tell it." But he insisted.

His story came to this: That, knowing we had organized in December for defence, they had organized for attack. A group of men outnumbering ours would go to the Temple on the 21st, well led and well armed. Under the new Mayor, Wightman, a more subservient tool of the mob than his predecessor, Lincoln, the police would no longer be allowed to protect the Abolitionists. This hostile band would wait on events a little, but if Phillips and his friends were in the same mood as at the Music Hall, they would be driven out of the Temple. "What do you mean by driven out?" He answered, gravely, "It would be truer to say carried out. We are determined to put down this mad agitation. They will not leave the Temple alive."

My friend spoke in perfect good faith, but it is needless to say I did not believe him. I told him so.

"Your friends talk, but they will not act. They well know that if they murder Phillips they will be hanged for it."

"But will you not advise Phillips to stay away, or at least to be moderate?"

"No, I will not. If I did, it would be useless."

"But if you tell him what I say?"

"He would disbelieve it, as I do."

Our talk ended. I thanked him, but said his friends would find us ready; that I should, of course, consider what he had said confidential, but it would not alter our purpose. He wished me to tell Phillips, mentioning no names, and I might tell any of our party who could be trusted. Evidently he hoped they would be more impressed than I was. I did tell Phillips, who said, "You seem to have queer friends." I said something also to the two men who were to be stationed at the ends of the platform where the steps were, leading to the platform from the body of the hall, the two most dangerous points. The only change they made in their plans was to double the number of these outposts.

From morning, when the Convention assembled till the noon recess, and then all through the afternoon the Temple was a scene of confusion, disorder, uproar; rioting even, but of no violence. The deep gallery opposite the platform was thronged by the rioters. The formal business of organization once over, they broke in upon every speech. Nobody was heard. Phillips, with all his tact in dealing with such gangs, could do little. Now and then a sentence rang clear. A message had gone from the Temple to the State House, where Governor Andrew sat waiting, and watching the course of events. An answer had come back by word of mouth, and had been misunderstood, as oral messages commonly are.

In a lull, Phillips's voice was heard in a direct appeal to the gallery mob: "We have a message from the Governor. The State Militia is on its way to the Temple and will sweep that rabble where it belongs—into the calaboose." The rabble thought it over for a while in silence, but began again. When the adjournment came Phillips said to me: "I am going to Governor Andrew. Come."

We found Governor Andrew in his room at the golden-domed State House of Massachusetts. He greeted us cordially and listened while Phillips stated his case. Phillips urged that the Anti-Slavery Society had a right to meet, a right to transact business, a right to the free use of that free speech which was a right attaching to citizenship in Massachusetts; and a right to be protected when that right was denied. Primarily, he said, it was the business of the police to keep order and give protection, but the police, acting under the orders of Mayor Wightman, refused to do their plain duty.

"Therefore," said Phillips, "I come to the Governor of the State to safeguard citizens of the State in the exercise of their rights."

Said Governor Andrew:

"Mr. Phillips, what do you wish me to do?"

"Send a sufficient force of troops to Tremont Temple to put down the rioters and protect law-abiding citizens in the legal exercise of their legal rights."

The Governor sat behind a table on which lay a copy of the Revised Statutes of Massachusetts. He opened it, handed it to us, and said:

"If you wish me, as Governor, to act, show me the statute which gives me the power."

But Phillips was not to be turned aside. He answered, in tones slightly less cool than before:

"Free speech is a common law right. The power to which I appeal is a common law power, inherent in the Governor as the Chief Magistrate of the State."

But Andrew said again:

"Show me the statute."

And again:

"Show me the statute."

And from that he was not to be moved. Seeing that his mind was made up, Phillips turned away abruptly, saying to me, "Come," and we departed. As we went downstairs Phillips said:

"I will never again speak to Andrew as long as I live."

And we went back to the Temple, knowing at last we had nothing to depend on but ourselves and our revolvers.

Again during the interval my friend came to me. He said: "You will be allowed to hold your meeting this afternoon, though not without interruption. But the attack I have warned you of will be made this evening, and I once more beseech you to stay away." He knew, of course, it was impossible. What took place after that in the councils of the rioters I know not. I have always supposed that my friend, a man well known in Boston, went to the Mayor and laid the case before him. I do not know. What is known is that before the hour when the Society was to assemble in the evening, the Mayor closed the Temple. His decision was not imparted to us. Phillips and I drove to the Temple, and only on arriving heard what the Mayor had done. He was a weak Mayor, disloyal, incompetent. But he had perhaps prevented a tragedy. I think Governor Andrew, aware of the probable course of events in the South and at Washington, desired to avoid anything like a conflict in Massachusetts. He said as much to me afterward. That was his excuse.