He said he claimed no credit for his acts in Tennessee, for he had simply done his duty—nothing more—and any man who would not, under similar circumstances, do the same thing, deserved to be hung. He was a Union man from principle, not from policy. He had always been a Union man; it was no new thing with him. He had opposed secession with what abilities God had given him, under all circumstances, and wherever, in his presence, it had shown its vile features. And this he should continue to do, at the risk of being mobbed and hung, if need be. He was a national man; he had no sentiments in the South that he was not willing to promulgate in the North; and none in the North that he would not proclaim upon the house-top in the Southern States. In 1828, the speaker supported John Quincy Adams for the Presidency, and for that act incurred the hatred of many of his friends in the South. At a later day, when Mr. Adams presented before Congress a petition for the abolition of slavery, the speaker also defended him in that particular; for, though not an abolitionist, he had always contended that a Congressman's constituents had the right to petition that body for anything they might desire. He had supported that eminent statesman, Henry Clay; and, when he died, he would willingly have voted for Clay's last pair of pantaloons, stuffed with straw! He had advocated the claims of Daniel Webster, for his gigantic intellect and commanding statesmanship entitled him to the highest honors of the nation. But the last ticket he had supported was the Bell-Everett ticket, which bore such a close resemblance to a kangaroo—being the strongest in its hinder parts. He should make a trip to Boston, purposely to visit Edward Everett, and to take him by the hand, for he was a patriot. But as to "Old Man Bell," he was fast traveling the road leading to a certain locality where traitors and devils are sure to land eventually. Being destitute of nerve, moral courage, of fixed patriotic principles, the weak old man had succumbed to the hell-born and hell-bound heresy of secession.
The speaker here made allusion to the treatment he had received from the traitorous rabble in his own State, and gave a brief sketch of his imprisonment in the Knoxville jail; of the threats of immediate execution with which his ears were daily regaled; the actual hanging of many of his companions in the prison; and many interesting particulars of the struggle between treason and loyalty in Eastern Tennessee. He stated that, for many days, he fully expected to be hung, and had become perfectly resigned to his fate, provided his persecutors would grant him one privilege, which was, that from the gallows he might be permitted to address them for one hour. "I had prepared myself for the occasion," said Mr. Brownlow, "and I intended to do the Southern Confederacy justice—to pronounce a high-wrought eulogy on the concern, from Jeff. Davis down to the smallest secession Devil among them."
The speaker thought that the Union sentiment of Eastern Tennessee had never abated one iota; that there were thousands of good Union men there, who would hail the approach of the Federal army with sincere joy. Gen. Jackson put down the rebellion of 1832, and, though this was a much more formidable uprising, he believed Abe Lincoln would subdue it. "My friends," said the orator, "the hanging must begin on the other side, this season, and I want to superintend it. You may think I speak harshly; but, after what I have seen and experienced among the rebels, how can I feel differently? I tell you, my hearers, I intend to go back to Tennessee, before long, under different circumstances from those under which I left the State. I want to go back in company with Gen. Fremont; I want a big war-horse, and a military suite, and the General and myself will ride down among those rebels, and, if you will excuse my apparent egotism, I do believe the scoundrels had rather see the Devil coming after them!"
After paying his compliments to Mason and Slidell, both of whom he knows personally, the Parson remarked that, "When this rebellion is put down, England and France will have to behave themselves, or we will thrash them both."
The speaker then thanked the citizens for the kind reception given him, and closed his speech with the promise that they should hear from him again in the evening. He took his seat amid a storm of applause, that emanated from the hearts as well as the mouths of his hearers.
Gen. S. F. Cary, of Cincinnati, being present, was loudly called for, and, taking the stand, proceeded to deliver one of the most thrillingly eloquent speeches to which we have ever listened. We have not room for even a summary of this production, but those who are familiar with the celebrated Cincinnati orator will appreciate the meaning of our observation, when we say it was one of Gen. Cary's happiest efforts.
After he had closed, Frank Lumbard was called upon for a song, and, mounting the stand, gave, in his best style, "The Star Spangled Banner," the entire assemblage joining in the swelling chorus, with splendid effect. The crowd then filed out past the President's desk, where sat the Parson, each individual grasping his extended hand with evident emotions of sympathy and kindly regard. Mr. Brownlow and party soon after repaired to the Sherman House, where they partook of a sumptuous dinner.
In the afternoon the party made a visit to Camp Douglas, and spent some time in making observations among the very class of men from whose clutches the Parson had so recently escaped.