William Lloyd Garrison, the Abolitionist

by Archibald Henry Grimké

The tidings of this tragedy stirred the free States to unwonted depths. The murder of an able and singularly noble man by a mob was indeed horrible enough, but the blow which took his life was aimed at the right of free speech and the freedom of the press. He was struck down in the exercise of his liberties as a citizen of the town where he met death, and of the State and country to which he belonged. What brave man and good in the North who might not meet a similar fate for daring to denounce evils approved by the community in which his lot was cast? Who was safe? Whose turn would it be next to pay with his life for attempts to vindicate the birthright of his citizenship? What had Lovejoy done, what had he written, that thousands of people who did not agree with Garrison would not have done and have written under like circumstances? He was not a disciple of Garrison, he did not accept the doctrine of immediate emancipation, and yet a pro-slavery mob had murdered him. Yes, who was safe? Who was to be the next? A great horror transfixed the North, and bitter uncertainty, and tremendous dread of approaching perils to its liberties.

Ah! had not Garrison spoken much plain truth at the public hearing of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society before the insolent chairman and his committee when he said: "The liberties of the people of the free States are identified with those of the slave population. If it were not so, there would be no hope, in my breast, of peaceful deliverance of the latter class from their bondage. Our liberties are bound together by a ligament as vital as that which unites the Siamese twins. The blow which cuts them asunder, will inevitably destroy them both. Let the freedom of speech and of the press be abridged or destroyed, and the nation itself will be in bondage; let it remain untrammeled, and Southern slavery must speedily come to an end." The tragedy at Alton afforded startling illustration of the soundness of this remark. Classes like individuals gain wisdom only by experience; and the murder of Lovejoy was one of those terrific experiences which furrow themselves in the soul of a people in frightful memories and apprehensions which do not disappear but remain after long lapse of years.

Twelve days after the murder—it was before the development of the telegraph and rapid postal facilities—the news reached Boston. It produced the most profound sensation. Many of the leading citizens felt straightway that if the rights assailed in the person of Lovejoy were to be preserved to themselves and their section, immediate action was required. A great meeting was proposed, and Faneuil Hall applied for. The application was denied by the municipal authorities on the plea that its use for such a purpose might provoke a mob. The city was, however, dealing now not with the despised Abolitionists, but with men of property and standing in the community and was soon brought to its senses by the indignant eloquence of Dr. Channing, appealing to the better self of Boston in this strain: "Has it come to this? Has Boston fallen so low? May not its citizens be trusted to come together to express the great principles of liberty for which their forefathers died? Are our fellow-citizens to be murdered in the act of defending their property and of assuming the right of free discussion? And is it unsafe in this metropolis to express abhorrence of the deed?"

A second application for the hall was granted, and a meeting, which is an historical event in the annals of the old town, was held December 8, 1837—a meeting memorable as an uprising, not of the Abolitionists, but of the conservatism and respectability of the city in behalf of the outraged liberties of white men. Ever memorable, too, for that marvelous speech of Wendell Phillips, which placed him instantly in the front rank of minds with a genius for eloquence, lifted him at once as an anti-slavery instrument and leader close beside William Lloyd Garrison. The wild-cat-like spirit which had hunted Thompson out of the country and Lovejoy to death, had more than made good the immense deficit of services thus created through the introduction upon the national stage of the reform of this consummate and incomparable orator.

The assassination of Lovejoy was an imposing object lesson to the North, but it was not the last. Other and terrible illustrations of the triumph of mobs followed it, notably the burning of Pennsylvania Hall in Philadelphia on the evening of May 17, 1838. As the murder of Lovejoy formed the culmination of outrages directed against the rights of person, the burning of Pennsylvania Hall furnished the climax of outrages committed against the rights of property. The friends of the slave and of free discussion in Philadelphia feeling the need of a place where they might assemble for the exercise of the right of free speech in a city which denied to them the use of its halls and meeting-houses, determined to erect for themselves such a place. At a cost of forty thousand dollars they built Pennsylvania Hall and devoted it to "Free Discussion, Virtue, Liberty, and Independence."

Two days after the dedicatory exercises were had the hall was occupied by the annual convention of American Anti-Slavery Women. On the evening of May 16th, Garrison, Maria Weston Chapman, Angelina Grimké Weld and others addressed the convention in the new temple of freedom. The scenes of that evening have been graphically described by the first speaker as follows: "The floor of the hall was densely crowded with women, some of the noblest specimens of our race, a large proportion of whom were Quakers. The side aisles and spacious galleries were as thickly filled with men. Nearly three thousand people were in the hall. There seemed to be no visible symptoms of a riot. When I rose to speak I was greeted with applause by the immense assembly, and also several times in the course of my remarks. As soon, however, as I had concluded my address, a furious mob broke into the hall, yelling and shouting as if the very fiends of the pit had suddenly broken loose. The audience rose in some confusion, and would undoubtedly have been broken up, had it not been for the admirable self-possession of some individuals, particularly the women. The mobocrats finding that they could not succeed in their purpose, retreated into the streets, and, surrounding the building, began to dash in the windows with stones and brick-bats. It was under these appalling circumstances that Mrs. Chapman rose for the first time in her life, to address a promiscuous assembly of men and women—and she acquitted herself nobly. She spoke about ten minutes, and was succeeded by A.E.G. Weld, who occupied nearly an hour. As the tumult from without increased, and the brick-bats fell thick and fast (no one, however, being injured) her eloquence kindled, her eye flashed, and her cheeks glowed, as she devoutly thanked the Lord that the stupid repose of that city had at length been disturbed by the force of truth. When she sat down, Esther Moore (a Friend) made a few remarks, then Lucretia Mott, and finally Abby Kelley, a noble young woman from Lynn.

"The meeting broke up about 10 o'clock, and we all got safely home. The next day the street was thronged with profane ruffians and curious spectators—the women, however, holding their meetings in the hall all day, till towards evening. It was given out by the mob that the hall would be burnt to the ground that night. We were to have a meeting in the evening, but it was impossible to execute our purpose. The mayor induced the manager to give the keys of the building into his hands. He then locked the doors, and made a brief speech to the mob, assuring them that he had the keys, and that there would be no meeting, and requesting them to retire. He then went home, but the mob were bent on the destruction of the hall. They had now increased to several thousands, and soon got into the hall by dashing open the doors with their axes. They then set fire to this huge building, and in the course of an hour it was a solid mass of flame. The bells of the city were rung, and several engines rallied; but no water was permitted to be thrown upon the building. The light of the fire must have been seen a great distance."

At midnight Garrison was spirited out of the city, and conveyed in a covered carriage by a friend to Bristol, about twenty miles, where in the morning he took the steamboat for Boston. The light of that fire was visible a great distance in more senses than one. The burning of Pennsylvania Hall proved a public enlightener. After that occurrence the gentlemen of property scattered through the free States devoted themselves less to the violent suppression of Abolitionism and more to the forcible suppression, upon occasion, of the alarming manifestations of popular lawlessness, which found significant demonstration just a week later in the city of Boston.

Mr. Garrison has preserved for us an instructive account of this affair, too, and here is the story as told by him to his brother-in-law, George W. Benson, in a letter dated May 25th: "The spirit of mobocracy, like the pestilence, is contagious; and Boston is once more ready to reënact the riotous scenes of 1835. The Marlboro' Chapel, having just been completed, and standing in relation to our cause just as did Pennsylvania Hall, is an object of pro-slavery malevolence. Ever since my return, threats have been given out that the chapel should share the fate of the hall. Last evening was the time for its dedication; and, so threatening was the aspect of things, four companies of light infantry were ordered to be in readiness, each being provided with 100 ball cartridges, to rush to the scene of riot on the tolling of the bells. The Lancers, a powerful body of horsemen, were also in readiness. During the day placards were posted at the corners of the streets, denouncing the Abolitionists, and calling upon the citizens to rally at the chapel in the evening, in order to put them down. An immense concourse of people assembled, a large proportion doubtless from motives of curiosity, and not a few of them with evil designs; but owing to the strong military preparations, the multitude refrained entirely from any overt acts of violence. They did not disperse till after 10 o'clock, and during the evening shouted and yelled like a troop of wild savages. Some ten or twelve were seized and carried to the watch-house, and this morning fined for their disorderly conduct."

The frightful excesses of the Walpurgis period of the agitation reacted through the free States to an extraordinary extent in favor of Abolition. The greater the horror committed by the wild-cat-like spirit, the greater the help which the reform derived therefrom. The destruction of property, and the destruction of life instead of putting down the hated Abolitionists aroused in the public mind apprehensions and antagonisms in respect of mobs, which proved, immediately and ultimately, of immense advantage to freedom. This revulsion on the part of the North from lawless attempts to abolish Abolitionism, affected almost unavoidably, and in the beginning of it almost unconsciously, the friendly dispositions of that section toward slavery, the root and mainspring of these attempts. Blows aimed at the agent were sure, regardless of the actor's intention, to glance and strike the principal. In spite of mobs then, and to a remarkable degree because of mobs, Abolitionism had become a powerful motor in revolutionizing public opinion in the free States on the subject of slavery.