From Buffalo to Albany our experience was the same, varied only by the fertile resources of the actors and their surroundings.  Thirty years of education had somewhat changed the character of Northern mobs.  They no longer dragged men through the streets with ropes around their necks, nor broke up women’s prayer meetings; they no longer threw eggs and brickbats at the apostles of reform, nor dipped them in barrels of tar and feathers, they simply crowded the halls, and, with laughing, groaning, clapping, and cheering, effectually interrupted the proceedings.  Such was our experience during the two days we attempted to hold a convention in St. James’ Hall, Buffalo.  As we paid for the hall, the mob enjoyed themselves, at our expense, in more ways than one.  Every session, at the appointed time, we took our places on the platform, making, at various intervals of silence, renewed efforts to speak.  Not succeeding, we sat and conversed with each other and the many friends who crowded the platform and anterooms.  Thus, among ourselves, we had a pleasant reception and a discussion of many phases of the question that brought us together.  The mob not only vouchsafed to us the privilege of talking to our friends without interruption, but delegations of their own came behind the scenes, from time to time, to discuss with us the right of free speech and the constitutionality of slavery.

These Buffalo rowdies were headed by ex-Justice Hinson, aided by younger members of the Fillmore and Seymour families, and the chief of police and fifty subordinates, who were admitted to the hall free, for the express purpose of protecting our right of free speech, but who, in defiance of the mayor’s orders, made not the slightest effort in our defense.  At Lockport there was a feeble attempt in the same direction.  At Albion neither hall, church, nor schoolhouse could be obtained, so we held small meetings in the dining room of the hotel.  At Rochester, Corinthian Hall was packed long before the hour advertised.  This was a delicately appreciative, jocose mob.  At this point Aaron Powell joined us.  As he had just risen from a bed of sickness, looking pale and emaciated, he slowly mounted the platform.  The mob at once took in his look of exhaustion, and, as he seated himself, they gave an audible simultaneous sigh, as if to say, what a relief it is to be seated!  So completely did the tender manifestation reflect Mr. Powell’s apparent condition that the whole audience burst into a roar of laughter.  Here, too, all attempts to speak were futile.  At Port Byron a generous sprinkling of cayenne pepper on the stove soon cut short all constitutional arguments and paeans to liberty.