ous "Old Virginia gentleman," and was loved by the
rich and loved by the poor, he was loved by white folks and black; loved
by the mothers and their babies; and the people patronized his
preaching, not because he was a great preacher, for he certainly was
not, but because they loved the man. He was an old Henry Clay Whig, and
like that great Kentucky statesman was an Emancipationist. Bro. S. was
to come over the river and preach the first sermon in this new town, and
it was a great event to the people. On returning to Port William in the
morning Bro. Hartman said that I must take dinner with him, and he would
introduce me to Bro. Steele. It was not until twenty-five years
afterwards, and only after Sister Hartman had died, that Bro. Hartman
told me what so much altered his feelings. She was a sweet Christian
woman, and when Bro. H. went to her she said to him: "Husband, don't you
know that in the last great day the Lord will say, 'I was a stranger and
ye took me in'; and don't you remember how the good Samaritan showed
mercy to the man that fell among thieves? Now we believe that this man
is an innocent man; and what will the Lord say to us if we turn him out
of doors?"

At dinner, at the house of Bro. Hartman, was also Dr. Oliphant, father
of the Bro. Oliphant with whom I had lodged. He was a brusque,
blunt-spoken, honest, anti-slavery Northern Methodist preacher. He said
bluntly at the table: "Well, Mr. Butler, they treated you rather roughly
at At-Atchison, did they not?" I said, "Yes--" attempted to say more,
broke down and left the table, and went out of the house. My heart was
not as hard here, among sympathizing friends, as it had been the day
before, when I had to face a raging mob. When I returned no mother could
be more tender seeking out the hurt of her boy bruised in a rough
encounter with his fellows, than was Oliver Steele. He would hear the
whole story, sighed over these "evil days," and listened with approval
to the vindication I made of the purposes of the free State men. How
many men that, through a sense of bitter wrong, are in danger to become
desperate, could be won to a better temper the world has never fully
tried.

The news of what had been done at Atchison flew like wild-fire through
the country. This proved the last feather that broke the camel's back.
It became apparent that the country was full of men that were ready to
fight. As for my friend Caleb May, he went into Atchison and said:
"_I