up a great shout.  The workmen came to the aid of the fugitive by closing the door of the carpenter’s shop in the face of his pursuers.  The situation seemed desperate.  Retreat from the front was cut off; escape from the rear anticipated and foiled.  Garrison perceived the futility of any further attempts to elude the mob, and proposed in his calm way to deliver himself up to them.  But his faithful Achates, John Reid Campbell, advised him that it was his duty to avoid the mob as long as it was possible to do so.  Garrison thereupon made a final effort to get away.  He retreated up stairs, where his friend and a lad got him into a corner of the room and tried to conceal his whereabouts by piling some boards in front of him.  But, by that time, the rioters had entered the building, and within a few moments had broken into the room where Garrison was in hiding.  They found Mr. Reid, and demanded of him where Garrison was.  But Reid firmly refused to tell.  They then led him to a window, and exhibited him to the mob in the Lane, advising them that it was not Garrison, but Garrison’s and Thompson’s friend, who knows where Garrison is, but refuses to tell.  A shout of fierce exultation from below greeted this announcement.  Almost immediately afterward, Garrison was discovered and dragged furiously to the window, with the intention of hurling him thence to the pavement.  Some of the rioters were for doing this, while others were for milder measures.  “Don’t let us kill him outright!” they begged.  So his persecutors relented, coiled a rope around his body instead, and bade him descend to the street.  The great man was never greater than at that moment.  With extraordinary meekness and benignity he saluted his enemies in the street.  From the window he bowed to the multitude who were thirsting for his destruction, requesting them to wait patiently, for he was coming to them.  Then he stepped intrepidly down the ladder raised for the purpose, and into the seething sea of human passion.

Garrison must now have been speedily torn to pieces had he not been quickly seized by two or three powerful men, who were determined to save him from falling into the hands of the mob.  They were men of great muscular strength, but the muscular strength of two or three giants would have proven utterly unequal to the rescue, and this Mr. Garrison’s deliverers evidently appreciated.  For while they employed their powerful arms, they also employed stratagem as well to effect their purpose.  They shouted anon as they fought their way through the excited throng, “He is an American!  He shan’t be hurt!” and other such words which divided the mind of the mob, arousing among some sympathy for the good man.  By this means he was with difficulty got out of Wilson’s lane into State street, in the rear of the old State House.  The champion was now on historic ground, ground consecrated by the blood of Crispus Attucks and his fellow-martyrs sixty-five years before.  His hat was lost, much