thirty-six hours before, as proof conclusive that I was a Northern
abolitionist. I then saw, what I have had abundant evidence of
since, that the United States mail was subject to the inspection of
Vigilance Committees in the South at their pleasure. The ruffianism
of these scoundrels did not allow them even to apologize for their
crime. The only phrase in the letter objected to was the unfortunate
but truthful one, "This is a hard place." I never felt its force as
at that instant. It served as a catch-word for more abuse. "Yes, we'll
make it a hard place for you before you get out of it, you infernal
spy," &c. The chairman argued rather feebly as I thought--but he
understood his audience better than I did--that the letter was free
from any proof against me, that I was an innocent-looking youth and
had behaved myself correctly, that I evidently did not know much
about their peculiar institution, and he thought I had no designs
against it. They then went into a private consultation, while I kept
my place upon the counter, though gradually moving back to the
further edge of it. I saw the crisis was at hand, for smothered but
angry argument was going on in knots of men all over the room; my
life was suspended upon a breath, and I was utterly powerless to
change the decision, whatever it might be; but I must say that my
nerves were steady and my hand untrembling,--the unwonted calmness
of one who knew that death was inevitable if they should decide in
the affirmative on the charge, and who was determined to defend
himself to the last, as I well knew any death, they could _there_
inflict, was better than to fall into their hands to be tormented by
their hellish hate.

During the consultation, one Butler Cavins, who had a good deal of
influence (he owned about twenty slaves), left the grocery with five
or six others and was absent about ten minutes. He returned with a