The other political club was the Minute Men. They were mostly young, but conservative, Democrats. They had supported Douglas for the Presidency. They too had had their torchlight processions. They had listened to impassioned harangues from the stump and loudly cheered them. Even their distinguished political leader came during the canvass and spoke to them with rare persuasiveness in defence of squatter sovereignty, and they were proud of “The Little Giant,” as Senator Douglas was popularly called. Then, in their city and State they had been victorious at the polls. While defeated in the nation at large, they felt strong, braced, as they believed themselves to be, by the old and oft-tested doctrines of Democracy. Here was another mighty political force. If armed conflict were to come, on which side would it array itself? While Mr. Douglas, their admired leader, was a staunch Union man, most of these Minute Men, who had so strenuously striven to elect him to the Presidency, after they learned the verdict at the polls, began to drift into the ranks of the secessionists. Nor did they disband; but they began to organize for hostilities. When this was observed, influential Republicans advised the Wide-Awakes not to break up their organizations, but to continue to meet statedly, just as they had during the presidential campaign, to procure arms so far as they were able, and to subject themselves to military drill. And during the winter of 1860–61 these antagonistic political organizations, the Minute Men and the Wide-Awakes, now to all intents and purposes transformed into military bodies, met regularly at their various rendezvous and went through the manual of arms. Late in the evening, I often passed a hall occupied by a company of Minute Men, or secessionists, where I heard them march, countermarch and ground arms. Things like this were unmistakable premonitions of bloody battle. Some of our immediate neighbors and friends evidently already contemplated appealing “from ballots to bullets,” and a shiver of apprehension ran down our spines.
But a serious problem now presented itself for solution. How could arms be obtained for the Wide-Awakes or Union men? In some mysterious way the Minute Men or secessionists had been at least partially armed. We could only guess what was the source of their supply. But where could the Wide-Awakes secure guns? There were arms in abundance at the Arsenal in the southern part of the city, but they belonged to the United States; and as there were as yet no open hostilities, private military organizations could not lawfully be furnished with them. Notwithstanding this, we did not propose, if the hour of need should strike, to be found napping. So after due deliberation it was announced that, in a certain hall, there would be an art exhibition, which would continue for three weeks or more. To the general public it seemed to be an unpropitious time for such a venture, but as it had no warlike look it aroused no suspicion, and was generously patronized by those of all shades of political opinion. The exhibition in its display of statuary and painting was not only creditable but attractive. It was also a financial success; but outside the few determined Union men who made up the inner circle, the secret reason of that burning zeal for cultivating the artistic tastes of the city was quite unknown. Considerable material for the exhibition was sent to us from the East; among other things was a plentiful supply of plaster casts from New York. These were packed in large boxes; but some patriots of Gotham, who sent them, knew our secret and our necessities, and also forwarded to us boxes of muskets labeled as plaster casts, with plain directions to handle the fragile contents with care. Those who arranged the material of the art exhibit, unable, on account of the rush of work, to unpack these boxes in the daytime, were compelled to leave them till midnight before they were cared for. Then, unopened, they were carted to the places where patriotic Wide-Awakes were gathered. Shining muskets never gave more joy than these imparted to the Union men of St. Louis. And during that anxious, dismal winter, they often met in their secret places, and while hoping that all threatened disaster might be averted, statedly went through the manual of arms. Hoping for the best, they determined to be ready for the worst.
So the city had a number of hostile camps, which had been so secretly formed and maintained that many did not even know of their existence. These hostile bodies had been armed; but no one yet knew where the Minute Men, or secessionists, obtained their arms; and the secessionists did not even know that the Wide-awakes, the Union men, were armed at all. Yet there these opposing bands of men were, cherishing diametrically opposite purposes. Some of them had determined if possible to disrupt the Republic; some of them had determined to do all in their power to prevent such a catastrophe. To make good their respective purposes, they were secretly drilling, while the whole city was full of apprehension, often greatly depressed in spirit and sometimes wrapped in gloom.
While these things were being done under cover, the people of the city carefully abstained from all outward manifestations of their patriotism. The fire burned in the bones of Union men, but for prudential reasons they did not permit it to flame forth. They determined if possible to avoid conflict and bloodshed within our gates. No preacher spoke for the Republic. No congregation sang, “My country, ’tis of thee.” No band played “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Outside of the Arsenal there was but one United States flag hung out in all the city, and that floated over the main entrance of a dry-goods store; partly, as we thought, from patriotic, and partly from mercenary, motives; but to all lovers of the Union, it was a cheering sight. And this flagless condition of the city continued till May of 1861, when gradually the houses, places of business, and in some instances even the churches of the loyal, began to blossom with national banners.
Events outside of the city greatly agitated us. In December of 1860, the Governor of Alabama sent commissioners to all the slaveholding States, inviting and urging them to secede from the Union. He wished these States to act as a unit, to go out of the Union together, in order that the resulting Confederacy might from the start be as formidable as possible. One of these commissioners, Mr. William Cooper, presented this appeal from Alabama to Governor Stewart at our State capital, who received him with frigid courtesy and listened unsympathetically to his message. He then called on the Governor-elect, Claiborn F. Jackson, who unhesitatingly expressed his sympathy with the proposed secession movement.[[4]] This of course aroused our indignation, but it was what we should have expected of one who had been prominent among armed Missourians, that, at an earlier day, invaded Kansas, and by force deposited their votes in order to make it a slave State.
Then on the heel of this came the secession of South Carolina on the twentieth of December. To be sure, the excitement caused among us by these ominous political measures was shared by the whole nation. But as the situation of a border city was peculiar, the agitation that we felt was unique. Unionism and secessionism in our streets, homes, places of business, and social gatherings met face to face. An awful uncertainty pervaded all minds. Our political destiny trembled in the balance. Which way the scale would turn no one knew. Moreover, the same events awakened in the city opposite and antagonistic emotions. When one party was filled with apprehension and sadness, the other was filled with hope and joy. Which party was most numerous in those days that immediately preceded the war was a matter of uncertainty. Upon which side our neighbors, our partners in business, and often those of our own households would array themselves it was difficult to determine. Nor could we forget that the announcement of the secession of a State might lead to bloody conflict in our streets. Under such peculiar circumstances the proposed, or actual, secession of States stirred profoundly our whole city. The excitement was not noisy, it was too deep for that. Men met, and transacted business, without uttering a word concerning the country. Many of the most thoughtful seemed to hold their breath and listen to the beating of their hearts. Not because they were afraid, but because, standing in the presence of such portentous movements, they did not yet know what they ought to do.
Still, some relief came from engaging in the benevolent activities of the churches and in attending the usual concerts and lectures. Among the lecturers were two of special note. One was the Hon. Thomas Marshall of Kentucky. He was a brilliant man. He had won distinction at the bar, when his State was noted for able lawyers; the highest legal and political honors were within his grasp; but through drink he had sadly sacrificed them all. At times he rallied and seemed to have conquered his infirmity. During these sane and sober intervals, to turn an honest penny he sometimes lectured. Occasionally from the depths of his own sad experience, with rare eloquence, he advocated total abstinence. In the winter of 1860–61 he lectured in St. Louis. He was a tall man and well-proportioned. He came to the lecture platform dressed from top to toe in spotless white. He spoke without notes and with ease. His articulation was distinct. At times he was simply and naturally conversational; at times he became imaginative and impassioned; in his oratorical flights he profoundly impressed and swayed his audiences. He was a Union man, and among the subjects that he chose for discussion in our city were Henry Clay, and the war of the Revolution. He tried by his lectures to stir in the hearts of his hearers the purest and loftiest patriotism. All that was noblest and best in Mr. Clay as a man and as a statesman was justly and vividly set forth. In speaking on the Revolution he did all that he could to lead those who at times hung upon his lips with breathless interest to defend the government which had been wrought out at so great self-sacrifice. In this manner he rendered to our city and to his country an invaluable patriotic service, at a time when, and in a place where, it was most needed.
In his lectures on the Revolutionary War he was compelled to speak at considerable length on the priceless contributions made to that conflict for freedom by Massachusetts. But at that time Massachusetts was foolishly but intensely hated by many in St. Louis. Many men with Southern sentiments seemed to regard it as a duty and privilege to reproach her. There were before him not a few hearers of that sort. How could he surmount an obstacle so great? When he reached the passage in which he was to set forth what Massachusetts did during the period of the Revolution, he uttered the name, “Massachusetts,”—and then stopped speaking, and looked at his audience. Every eye was riveted on him. He walked slowly to the extreme left end of the platform. There he stood for a moment in silence, still surveying his audience. Then he said deliberately, “I suppose that it would be the popular thing in this place to damn Massachusetts; but whatever you may think of her now, in the Revolution she was some pumpkins.” The great audience broke out into a hearty and prolonged cheer. With marvellous tact and consummate art he had brushed the obstacle that confronted him from his path; broken down the wall that separated him from his hearers, and for the nonce they listened without prejudice as he glowingly set forth the great work which Massachusetts did in achieving our independence.
A few days afterwards I caught my last glimpse of this fascinating orator. A damp snow had fallen. It lay fully two inches deep, half-melted on the brick sidewalk. He came out of a house on Chestnut Street where he was being entertained by a friend. He was hatless and in his study-gown and slippers. He walked hurriedly on through the slush. His eye was wild. The demon that had robbed him of wealth, of a good name, of friends, of untold usefulness once more had him in his relentless clutch.
During the same winter the Hon. Joshua R. Giddings, a lawyer of high standing, came to lecture in our city. He was not a brilliant speaker like Mr. Marshall; but he had something to say which was of real value to his fellow-citizens. He had no flights of oratory, but he uttered sound sense and talked right on. He was a self-made man of massive character. For twenty-one years he had represented in the United States Congress the Connecticut Western Reserve in northeastern Ohio, and during all that long period of important public service had sturdily opposed slavery. He had been assaulted and mobbed in Washington for his opinions. But no vituperative opposition in debate, nor physical violence daunted him. Seeing his unflinching courage, many that did not endorse his political doctrines, nor approve of his course of action, admired him. He came to St. Louis with the garnered wisdom of years and with convictions as firm and immovable as a mountain of granite. Still, a large number did not gather to hear him. He was generally regarded as an abolitionist, and that, in the estimation of most men in St. Louis of all parties, was worthy of the deepest detestation. He spoke in Mercantile Library Hall. It was about two-thirds full. Many that came had no sympathy with the speaker’s views. They were attracted by curiosity; they wished to hear what this old anti-slavery war-horse would say in the great commercial city of a slave State. His lecture was a plain unvarnished statement of the rise and growth of slavery in the United States. When about half way through his address he made a declaration that aroused the antagonism of a part of his audience, which expressed itself in an emphatic and prolonged hiss. Those in sympathy with the doctrine of the speaker answered the hiss with a loud and hearty cheer. After the cheer there was a still more determined hiss, which was quickly followed by a still louder cheer. But at last when there came a lull in this sharply contested battle of hissing and cheering, the lecturer, who had stood without the slightest movement coolly surveying the tumultuous scene, said, in a strong, clear voice, “It makes no difference to me whether you hiss or cheer.” By that one declaration he seemed to capture his entire audience, and all broke out into enthusiastic applause. True men everywhere admire honesty and pluck. The coming to our city of one so prominent among anti-slavery men, who was permitted to make unhindered a judicial and luminous historical statement of the beginning and development of African slavery in our country, before a large audience of our fellow-citizens, marked for us the dawn of a new era. The old was passing, the new with its broader freedom was at hand.