Finally, about the middle of February, Mr. Brigham was one day taken into custody, and brought before Governor Pickens and his cabinet counselors, among whom Ex-Governor McGrath was the principal inquisitor. At this time the Southern Confederacy existed only in embryo, and South Carolina claimed to be an independent republic. The correspondent, who had great coolness and self-control, and knew a good deal of human nature, maintained a serene exterior despite the awkwardness of his position. After a rigid catechisation, he was relieved to find that the tribunal did not surmise his real character, but suspected him of being a spy of the Government.
His trial took place at the executive head-quarters, opposite the Charleston Hotel, and lasted from nine o'clock in the morning until nine at night. During the afternoon, the city being disturbed by one of its daily reports that a Federal fleet had appeared off the bar, he was turned over to Mr. Alexander H. Brown, a leading criminal lawyer, famous for his skill in examining witnesses. Mr. Brown questioned, re-questioned, and cross-questioned the vagrant scribe, but was completely baffled by him. He finally said:
"Mr. Brigham, while I think you are all right, this is a peculiar emergency, and you must see that, under the circumstances, it will be necessary for you to leave the South at once."
He is Warned to Depart.
The "sweet sorrow" of parting gladdened his journalistic heart; but, at the bidding of prudence, he replied:
"I hope not, sir. It is very hard for one who, as you are bound to admit, after the most rigid scrutiny, has done nothing improper, who has deported himself as a gentleman should, who sympathizes with you as far as a stranger can, to be driven out in this way."
The attorney replied, with that quiet significance which such remarks possessed:
"I am sorry, sir, that it is not a question for argument."
The lucky journalist, while whispering he would ne'er consent, consented. Whereupon the lawyer, who seemed to have some qualms of conscience, invited him to join in a bottle of wine, and when they had become a little convivial, suddenly asked:
"By the way, do you know who is writing the letters from here to The Tribune?"