And so it was all the way to Albany.  The whole State was aflame with the mob spirit, and from Boston and various points in other States the same news reached us.  As the legislature was in session, and we were advertised in Albany, a radical member sarcastically moved “That as Mrs. Stanton and Miss Anthony were about to move on Albany, the militia be ordered out for the protection of the city.”  Happily, Albany could then boast of a Democratic mayor, a man of courage and conscience, who said the right of free speech should never be trodden under foot where he had the right to prevent it.  And grandly did that one determined man maintain order in his jurisdiction.  Through all the sessions of the convention Mayor Thatcher sat on the platform, his police stationed in different parts of the hall and outside the building, to disperse the crowd as fast as it collected.  If a man or boy hissed or made the slightest interruption, he was immediately ejected.  And not only did the mayor preserve order in the meetings, but, with a company of armed police, he escorted us, every time, to and from the Delevan House.  The last night Gerrit Smith addressed the mob from the steps of the hotel, after which they gave him three cheers and dispersed in good order.

When proposing for the Mayor a vote of thanks, at the close of the convention, Mr. Smith expressed his fears that it had been a severe ordeal for him to listen to these prolonged anti-slavery discussions.  He smiled, and said:  “I have really been deeply interested and instructed.  I rather congratulate myself that a convention of this character has, at last, come in the line of my business; otherwise I should have probably remained in ignorance of many important facts and opinions I now understand and appreciate.”

While all this was going on publicly, an equally trying experience was progressing, day by day, behind the scenes.  Miss Anthony had been instrumental in helping a much abused mother, with her child, to escape from a husband who had immured her in an insane asylum.  The wife belonged to one of the first families of New York, her brother being a United States senator, and the husband, also, a man of position; a large circle of friends and acquaintances was interested in the result.  Though she was incarcerated in an insane asylum for eighteen months, yet members of her own family again and again testified that she was not insane.  Miss Anthony, knowing that she was not, and believing fully that the unhappy mother was the victim of a conspiracy, would not reveal her hiding place.