To Mrs. Ellis Gray Loring.
New York, August 15, 1835.
I am at Brooklyn, at the house of a very hospitable Englishman, a friend of Mr. Thompson's. I have not ventured into the city, nor does one of us dare to go to church to-day, so great is the excitement here.
You can form no conception of it. 'Tis like the times of the French Revolution, when no man dared trust his neighbors.
Private assassins from New Orleans are lurking at the corners of the streets, to stab Arthur Tappan; and very large sums are offered for any one who will convey Mr. Thompson into the Slave States.
I tremble for him, and love him in proportion to my fears.
He is almost a close prisoner in his chamber, his friends deeming him in imminent peril the moment it is ascertained where he is. We have managed with some adroitness to get along in safety so far; but I have faith that God will protect him, even to the end. Yet why do I make this boast?
My faith has at times been so weak that I have started and trembled and wept, like a very child; and personal respect and affection for him have so far gained the mastery over my trust in Providence, that I have exclaimed in anguish of heart, “Would to God, I could die for thee!”
Your husband could hardly be made to realize the terrible
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state of fermentation now existing here.
There are 7,000 Southerners now in the city; and I am afraid there are not 700 among them who have the slightest fear of God before their eyes.
Mr. Wright was yesterday barricading his doors and windows with strong bars and planks an inch thick.
Violence, in some form, seems to be generally expected.
Alas poor fools!
They are building up the very cause they seek to destroy.
