THE PULPIT AND THE PRESS
Before the war of the rebellion, the pulpit had ably discussed in all of
its aspects the question of slavery. And as the mighty conflict for the
preservation of the Union was approaching, all the vast issues wrapped
up in it were handled with rare skill by distinguished preachers both of
the North and the South. But since in St. Louis Christian ministers
holding opposite views on the great national questions of slavery and
secession stood face to face, for a time they refrained from speaking
upon them publicly. They were not silent from cowardice; so far from
that, it required no small degree of self-control to hold their peace.
They shut their lips lest by speaking they should unnecessarily disturb
the peace of the community.
Moreover, many a pastor, out of tender regard for the members of his
church and congregation, for some months at the beginning of the Civil
War refused to discuss in his pulpit the question of the hour. Unless,
in his judgment, the public good imperatively demanded it, he felt
unwilling to wound the feelings of Christian friends and split his
church into hostile parties by openly proclaiming his patriotic
convictions. Nor should we fail to note that most of the preachers of
the city rightly felt that their work primarily was distinctively
spiritual, rather than political; that however sacred might be their
duty to their country, there were duties still higher and still more
sacred. They were also persuaded that they should, so far as in them
lay, calm the public mind rather than agitate it; should strengthen
reason and cool passion; promote love and discourage hatred and revenge.
Accordingly, such men as Eliot of the Unitarians, Post of the
Congregationalists, Nelson of the Presbyterians, Schuyler of the
Episcopalians, the staunchest of Union men, and each of them a tower of
strength in the city, seeking to do the largest possible good in a
community divided and torn by antagonistic political doctrines, for a
season refrained from giving public utterance to their Union sentiments.
When, however, they did speak, they boldly discussed with great ability
and thoroughness the duties which citizens owe to the State.
During the winter of 1860–61 there was but one clergyman in the city,
who publicly spoke upon the great national issue, and he was a
pronounced and prominent secessionist, or, which was the same thing
under a different label, a conditional Unionist. And strange to say,
this good Presbyterian brother regarded the introduction of politics
into the pulpit with holy horror; at all events he thought that his
brethren in the ministry should refrain from discussing in the house of
God disturbing political problems; nevertheless, he, in an elaborate
discourse, on the Lord’s Day, set forth in his pulpit, “The Ultimatum of
the South.” But our ministerial brother apparently failed to see that
“wherein he judged another he condemned himself.” He not only preached a
political sermon, but published it in pamphlet form, and did what he
could to scatter copies of it all over the State. So he was not after
all really opposed to preaching politics, but to preaching politics that
antagonized his own cherished political views. Not his own, but his
opponent’s politics degraded the pulpit.
Since, however, it is my purpose to present in these pages not only my
observations of others, but also my own experiences, I trust that it
will not be regarded as egotistical and indelicate on my part, if I
carefully portray some scenes in which I was called to be an actor. From
1858 to 1866 I was pastor of the Second Baptist Church of St. Louis and
preached at the corner of Sixth and Locust Streets, in a plain,
steepleless, brick meetinghouse, painted lead color. The membership of
the church was five or six hundred, and for three years of my pastorate,
the men outnumbered the women. The church contained an unusual number of
able, aggressive young men. In the congregation the rich and the poor
sat side by side. All walks and pursuits of life were there represented.
In the pews were a goodly number of lawyers, some of them among the
ablest advocates and counsellors in the State. One of them, James O.
Broadhead, not a Baptist, a member of the Union Safety Committee, was a
man of conspicuous ability. He was a native of Virginia, liberal-minded,
conservative, clear-headed. He was an ardent patriot without fanaticism.
While instinctively shrinking from all extreme positions on the vexed
political questions of the hour, he was unswervingly loyal to the Union.
In those dark tempestuous days, he stood like a granite rock amid the
swirling waves of passion.
Moreover, in the congregation, and also in the membership of the church,
was William M. McPherson. He came from the poor whites of Kentucky. What
he was he owed largely to a godly mother. Amid great disadvantages he
secured the rudiments of an English education. He then studied law at
night, in his humble Kentucky home, by the light of flaming pine knots.
He also taught a country school to put an honest penny into his empty
purse. While yet in the beginning of his professional career as a
lawyer, he came to St. Louis. He there at one time filled the office of
United States attorney. Out of tender remembrance of his mother, and a
sacred promise that he made her, he regularly attended church. He became
a Christian. During my pastorate, out of choice he was an usher in the
middle aisle, and none that received his attentions could ever forget
the gracious kindliness of his manner. But back of his marked
benevolence of spirit lay immense power of will. When he laid his hand
to a work within or without the church, if human energy could accomplish
it, it was quickly done. He was passionately devoted both to his city
and his country. In the darkest days of the war, he was as true to the
Old Flag as the needle to the pole. To preach to him and others of like
spirit was an inspiration.
In my church were seven deacons, all of them loyal to the Federal
government. Of some of them we shall have occasion to speak in another
connection. But one of them, Daniel J. Hancock, a Gibraltar of strength
to his pastor, I refer to here, on account of an interesting incident in
connection with the public mention of his name. General Hancock, who in
the Civil War acquired a world-wide military fame, spent the winter of
1860–61 in St. Louis. His father, who was a deacon of a Baptist church
in Pennsylvania, paid him a visit. One Sunday morning they both
worshipped with us. Before the sermon a collection was to be taken for
some special object. I said, “Will Deacon Pratt and Deacon Hancock pass
the contribution boxes?” General Hancock’s father, not knowing that
there was a Deacon Hancock in my church, was on his feet in a moment,
ready to do the duty asked. The general, pulling his father’s coattail,
said to him in a whisper, “There is a Deacon Hancock in this church.”
Was not the general’s readiness for any duty on the battlefield in large
measure an inheritance?
As the winter wore away, and in turn spring and summer came, military
officers in constantly increasing numbers appeared in the congregation.
I very distinctly remember General Sumner. Every Sunday night for two or
three months, he sat to my right near the pulpit. Being slightly deaf,
he got as near as he could to the speaker. He was tall and graceful in
form and movement, a man who would attract attention even in a crowd. He
was afterwards conspicuous in the great battles of Fair Oaks, Antietam
and Fredericksburg.
What I have now said may suggest with some distinctness the
circumstances under which I performed my pulpit ministrations. But I was
full of unrest because I had not spoken concerning the duties that we
all sacredly owed to our country. I felt that sooner or later every man,
who had any influence whatsoever, regardless of his surroundings, must
speak out boldly on the great national issue. This conviction was
re-enforced by two distasteful incidents thrust upon my attention. The
first was this. At the Sunday morning service I usually prayed for the
President and his advisers. So long as Mr. Buchanan was in office this
appeared to be agreeable to all; but no sooner was Mr. Lincoln
inaugurated than some began to object to this part of my prayer. In
private conversation they gave free expression to their resentment. The
congregation was divided on the question. Among themselves they warmly
debated it. No one as yet had uttered his protest to me. But I had heard
of the strenuous objection urged against my petition for our Chief
Magistrate. Believing, however, that I was discharging a sacred duty, a
duty positively enjoined in Scripture, I kept right on praying publicly
for the President. There was as yet no sign of yielding on either side.
Relations were already strained, if not wrenched. Something must be
done, so, at least, thought the opposition forces. They got together and
requested William M. McPherson, on their behalf, to talk the matter over
with me. While he had no sympathy with their opposition, in order that
he might do something in the interest of harmony in the church, he
consented to lay their grievance before me. He invited me to meet him at
his business office, that our interview might be strictly private. Since
I had no truer friend, I gladly responded to his courteous request. When
we met he at once said: “A considerable number of the church and
congregation have sent to you through me an earnest petition that in the
future you should forego praying publicly for the President. And they
have asked me to induce you, if I can, to grant their desire.” I
replied: “Such prayer is no new thing in my pulpit ministrations. I
prayed for Mr. Buchanan and no one objected to that; and I do not see
why any one should now object to my praying for Mr. Lincoln.” “Ah!” he
answered, “that is just the sore point; they think that praying for
Lincoln is partisan, that it is praying against the South; and can’t you
for the sake of peace forego it?” I responded, “If Lincoln is as bad as
they say he is, I am sure that both I and they ought to pray for him; he
needs our prayers. Moreover, be so kind as to say to your brethren and
mine, that according to the Protestant idea, prayer is indited by the
Holy Spirit; and if the Holy Spirit leads me to pray publicly for the
President, I must do it even though it may be disagreeable to my fellow
men.”
My reply seemed to please him, and he said: “Shall I say that that is
your message to them?” “Certainly,” said I, and our interview thus ended
very pleasantly; but as I went towards my home, I became more positively
convinced than ever, that all true men holding positions of trust in the
city would soon be compelled to speak out with no uncertain accent on
the question that was threatening to disrupt the Union. When the pews in
opposition to good government go so far as to attempt to dictate the
prayers of the pulpit and to repress all petitions for the President,
the pulpit must either become subject to the pews, or squarely assert
and defend its independence.
The second incident, constantly rankling like a thorn in my side, was
the secession flag, already mentioned in a previous chapter. It
fluttered over Sixth Street, about half a square from my church. Going
to and fro in the discharge of my duties, I was compelled to pass
beneath it. With many others, I wondered why the military authorities
did not take it down by force. I did not then know, what all learned
later, that just at that time they were in pursuit of larger game; that
they were planning to strike at the centre of secession in our city, and
so for the moment were wisely ignoring its incidental manifestations.
But I had reached the limit of my patience, and could no longer mutely
endure the flaunting of disloyalty. A fire was fiercely burning within
my bones. I felt that it must have vent, or I should be consumed.
It was nineteen days before the taking of Camp Jackson. Sunday, April
21st, dawned. It was a warm bright day. My morning audience was large
and attentive, but I was far from being happy. Back of the morning
message there was another flaming in my soul for expression. No one yet
knew what I contemplated doing in the evening. In the afternoon I met on
the street one of my good deacons and made known to him my intention.
Although a pronounced Unionist, for the sake of peace in the church and
congregation he tried to turn me from my purpose; but when he found that
my mind was fully made up, he said, “Well, if you must preach on
secession, give them a 12–inch columbiad.” He had evidently
overestimated the size of my gun, but such as I had, it was my fixed
purpose to fire.
The evening came. The sky was clear. It was neither hot nor cold. The
balmy air of spring enticed people from their houses. The church was
unusually well-filled, and my secession friends were present in large
numbers. I read for the Scripture lesson the 13th chapter of Romans, in
which Paul teaches the duty of obedience to established government.
Those in the pews listened with almost breathless interest to the words
of the great Apostle. But while I read, two deacons of the church, who
had been engaged in seating the congregation, standing under the
gallery, between the doors of entrance to the audience room, had this
suggestive colloquy. Both of them were unconditional Union men; but one
of them, formerly a citizen of Massachusetts, nervously anxious to keep
the peace, said to the other, who had once lived in Maryland, and
afterwards in Indiana, “I hope the pastor is not going to preach
to-night from any text in that chapter.” His associate in office
replied, “Aren’t you willing that your pastor should take his text from
any portion of the Word of God?” He responded, “I ought to say yes, but
I confess that in the present circumstances I can’t.” Considering the
sections of the Republic from which these gentlemen hailed, we should
naturally have thought that their respective attitudes would have been
the exact reverse. We should have looked for unyielding grit in the New
Englander, and for pliancy in the Marylander. But happily in our country
geography does not determine character, and this incident shows how two
good men and true in St. Louis, in those dark days, were divided as to
the line of action that should be taken to secure what they mutually and
earnestly desired.
But the service moved on. The very air seemed tremulous with excitement.
While singing the hymn immediately before the sermon, anxious
expectation was depicted on the faces of the audience. I announced as my
text Romans, the 13th chapter, the 1st and 2nd verses: “Let every soul
be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the
powers that be are ordained by God. Whosoever therefore resisteth the
power, resisteth the ordinance of God: and they that resist shall
receive to themselves damnation.”
When I began to speak such a hush fell upon the congregation, that at
the pauses between the sentences, I could hear the flicker of the gas. A
large bronze-faced man, a stranger, had been seated near the centre of
the audience room, in the end of a pew, that opened into the middle
aisle, so that he was directly before me. My eye instinctively turned to
him and at times seemed to be riveted upon him. I thought that he must
be the deacon of some Baptist church back in the State. At first he was
restless, and frequently changed his position; so I concluded that he
was a secessionist and did not like what I was saying. But when I was a
little more than half way through my discourse, he cried out, so that
all in the house heard him, “Amen,” making the a long and emphatic. My
wrong impression of him was at once corrected. He was, as I had
surmised, a Baptist deacon, but from Illinois, not from Missouri, and
his hearty “amen” added to the already intense excitement of the
congregation. The sudden consciousness of having in him an ally instead
of an enemy gave me a new sense of freedom, and I preached on with more
than my usual ease and fervor, closing with these words: “I wish to bear
my own individual testimony, to express the feelings of my heart. I love
my country—I love the government of my country—I love the freedom of my
country. It was purchased by the blood of our fathers, and when I become
so base, so cowardly, so besotted that I dare not speak out in behalf of
that for which they so bravely fought, I pray that my tongue may cleave
to the roof of my mouth.
“But, brethren, we need have no fears as to the ultimate issue. The Lord
God Omnipotent reigneth. In this conflict your property may be swept
away, and all may be reduced to a common level. Your life and mine may
be sacrificed on the altar of our country, yet Jehovah, who presides
over the scene, will bring the nation forth from the ordeal wiser,
purer, nobler. If the scythe of rebellion is swung over our whole land,
mowing down all of our free institutions, leave us the Christian family,
the Christian Church, and the time-honored Bible, and in the track of
the destroyer, they will spring up with new life, new power, and new
glory. ‘The Lord reigneth: let the earth rejoice: let the multitude of
isles be glad thereof.’”
For the last hymn I gave out “My country, ’tis of thee.” I am quite sure
that it had not been sung for many months in St. Louis; at all events,
as a congregation, we had refrained from singing it lest somebody might
be offended by it. My secession friends did not even deign to open their
hymn-books, but stood dumb while we sang. But compensations for their
silence had been providentially provided. A part of a congregation of
loyal Methodists, passing our house of worship on the way home from
their evening service, had crowded into the vestibule, and listened to
the close of my discourse; lingering there, they sang the national hymn
as only Methodists can. Also a band of loyal Unitarians going along
Locust Street by the church just as we began to sing, stood on the
sidewalk, under the open windows, and sang with fervor. Half a square
away a gentleman, sitting in his parlor with its windows shut, heard our
patriotic song and was glad.
At the close of the service, a stranger unceremoniously approached me,
and with some excitement of manner asked, “Do you expect to remain in
the city?” I assured him that I did, but that it was a matter of
indifference to me whether I did or not. Expressing the opinion that the
people of the city would not permit me to remain, he disappeared in the
departing crowd. Who he was, whence he came and whither he went, I knew
not. From my own soul a burden had been lifted. As well as I could, I
had spoken on behalf of our country. My mistake was that I had not
spoken sooner. With a light heart I went back to my home and slept.
I must now mention what was to me an exceedingly important event, to
which on account of its sacredness I should make no allusion if it were
not intertwined with an incident which sets in a startling light the
determination of not a few in St. Louis at that time to suppress, even
by brute force, freedom of speech. Two days after the delivery of my
sermon on “The Duty of Obedience to Established Government,” profoundly
believing in the Union, I was married. But our city was so agitated and
divided, that it was deemed best both by my bride and myself to make but
a short wedding trip. We thought that we should not be long absent from
pressing duties at home. So we went no farther than Cincinnati. We left
behind us a flagless city; but when we reached the great city on the
Ohio, it was just one gorgeous bouquet of national banners. The
exhilaration and ecstasy of that scene no words can express. The
remembered experience, the patriotic exultation of that hour, lingers
like undimmed sunshine in my soul.
We remained in Cincinnati over the following Sunday. By a happy
prearrangement, the young and eloquent Irish preacher of Quincy,
Illinois, Rev. H. M. Gallaher, supplied my pulpit. As he began the
evening service, a turbulent crowd gathered on Sixth and Locust Streets,
in front and by the side of the church. They had evidently come together
to mob me for my discourse the week before. When Mr. Gallaher was
offering prayer before the sermon, some one of the crowd on Locust
Street hurled a brickbat through the window, immediately to the left of
the pulpit; the great window-pane was shivered in pieces, but the
missile aimed at the preacher happily failed to reach its mark. It was
caught by a Venetian blind and fell harmless to the floor. In spite of
the sudden, unexpected crash, the plucky Irishman prayed on as though
nothing had happened, and his cool persistence probably averted further
disaster. My marriage had been a private one. Only a few intimate
friends had witnessed it. Nobody had advertised it; so those intent on
executing mob law upon me quite naturally supposed that I was in my
pulpit. But, for some unknown reason, somebody in that vengeful throng
began to suspect that their coveted game had slipped through their
toils. While the fearless preacher in the pulpit continued to pray in
apparent oblivion to splintering glass and a falling, resounding
brickbat, two men from the mob without, pushing partly open one of the
doors of the audience room, intently watched him. They evidently became
satisfied before he closed his prayer that the object of their malice
had in some way eluded them. They reported to the noisy, angry crowd in
the street. The clamor gradually subsided. There followed for a few
minutes a murmur of voices, then the disappointed multitude little by
little melted away.
This menacing event greatly disturbed the officers of my church. Knowing
the train on which we were returning to St. Louis, several of them came
to greet us and tell us of the mob. They feared that it might gather
again to carry out its fell purpose, and anxiously asked what line of
action would be wisest and best? In a moment I decided what I should do.
I told them that those who did not hear my sermon, but had learned of it
merely from flying rumor, had exaggerated and false notions concerning
it; that they had unquestionably misconceived its spirit; that I would
at once write it out, just as I had uttered it in the pulpit, and print
it in _The Missouri Republican_; that that journal of doubtful loyalty
gladly published articles on both sides of the national question, and
was very generally read by the secessionists; and that when those who
were bent on mobbing their fellow-citizens for their honestly expressed
political views should read it, they would not fail to see that it was
not quite as objectionable as they supposed, and would lay aside their
vengeful purpose.
Those who had anxiously sought my counsel approved, some of them with
apparent reluctance, this proposed line of action. So I went directly
from the boat on which we were ferried over the river, to my study, sat
down to my self-appointed task, and did not rise until it was done. Over
the sermon I wrote the following explanatory and conciliatory note.
“Since the delivery of this sermon, on the evening of April 21st, its
statements and sentiments have been greatly misrepresented. While it was
not prepared for publication, no word of it in fact having been written
before its delivery, at the suggestion of judicious friends, we give it
to the press, in order to correct the mistatements that have been made.”
I at once carried my manuscript to the editors of _The Republican_, who
apparently received it with pleasure. The next day it was published, and
having been so extensively talked about, it was widely read. The effect
of its publication was just what I had anticipated. The excitement
aroused by the spoken discourse, whose scope and spirit had been greatly
misapprehended by those who did not hear it, measurably died away; but
no one thereafter doubted where my pulpit stood on the vexed question
which was then dividing the nation.
The next Sunday morning, when I stepped into my pulpit, I had before me
one striking evidence of the effectiveness of my patriotic sermon. In
one entire row of pews, stretching from the pulpit to the outer door,
there were only three families. There my secession friends, whom I
highly esteemed, had been accustomed to sit; but a discourse on loyalty
to the general government had driven them away, never to return. That
row of empty pews was on the north side of the middle aisle, but a
Southern brother of high standing with a twinkle in his eye said to me,
“That is the South side of the house.” We deeply regretted to lose those
who so unceremoniously left us; but as no man or set of men is
indispensable, we went on prosperously without them. Their departure in
some measure strengthened us. They had been a disturbing element, and
after they had gone, we had that power that flows from unity of spirit
and action.
They took with them when they seceded a bright young Scotchman; but
after an absence of six weeks, he returned. At the close of the morning
service he very cordially greeted me, and said in his broad Scotch
accent: “I suppose you have noticed that I have been away. I went with
the rest, and we were foolish enough to think that when we departed the
roof of the church would fall in and the walls would fall down; but
every morning, when I went to business, I looked over this way, and saw
that she still stood, and so I thought I would come back.” But all did
not have the horse-sense of this Scotchman; only a few of the seceders
ever returned, but others came to take their places, and by the
following October the pews were fuller than ever; but many who sat in
them wore the shoulder-straps of army officers.
There was, however, one sad, yet ludicrous, incident, connected with my
sermon on “Obedience to the State,” which shows that the brutal spirit
of the mob was not wholly extinct. On Locust Street, two squares west of
our house of worship, stood the Central Presbyterian Church. Its pastor
was Rev. S. J. P. Anderson, D. D. He had occupied that position for
fifteen or twenty years, and both on account of the length of his
pastorate and his acknowledged ability was generally known, even among
non-churchgoers, while I, having the same surname, had been in St. Louis
not quite three years. It was therefore perfectly natural for godless
outsiders to attribute to him my pulpit utterances, which had stirred up
so much bad blood. So they determined to chastise him for what I had
said. Now he was a secessionist. In the preceding winter he had preached
the sermon to which we have already alluded, on “The Ultimatum of the
South.” While of course he would have utterly condemned all mob
violence, still the men who had marked him out for brutal usage were in
political fellowship with him. They watched for an opportunity to carry
out their ruthless purpose, and found it. He was accustomed, every
Saturday night, just at dusk, to go to the Post-office, at the corner of
Third and Pine Streets, to get his mail. There was then no free
delivery. His assailants hid themselves in an alley which ran into Pine
Street, and as he was passing by, threw brickbats at him, one of which
struck him on the cheek, and knocked him down. The next day his face was
so swollen and painful that he could not preach. They aimed at me and
hit him. They ignorantly knocked down their own political ally. They
compelled him to be my substitute. He unwillingly suffered in my stead.
He soon recovered, and I hastened to assure him of my deep regret that
he had been compelled to suffer vicariously for me. To which he very
naturally replied: “Yes, indeed, I don’t wish to be mixed up with you.”
Nor did I wish to be politically mixed up with him, however useful in
this case it had been to me. On one point we were in absolute agreement,
our mutual desire not to be confounded with each other in the public
mind.
Two more incidents, though pertaining wholly to my own church and
congregation, are worthy of notice, as revealing the peculiar
sensitiveness of those among whom we lived and toiled. My secession
brethren determined if possible to oust me from my pastorate; they
declared that their opposition to me was solely because I had introduced
politics into the pulpit. To carry out their purpose, they drew up a
paper setting forth their grievances, and urgently praying me to resign.
They made an extended canvass for signatures, but had such meagre
success that they abandoned their project.
They then sent a committee to me, asking that, inasmuch as I had fully
expressed my views on the great national issue, I would hereafter
refrain from all utterance on the subject in my pulpit, promising, if I
would enter into such an agreement, that they would resume their places
and duties in the church. But I assured them that, while it would give
me great pleasure to yield to their wishes, I could not enter into any
such compact; that I might be under solemn obligation to speak again,
and that I must not become a party to any bargain that would debar me
from doing my whole duty. My answer enraged the chairman of the
committee, and he declared that I wanted “to kick them out of the
church.” I replied, “You will bear witness that that is your language,
not mine. I should be glad to keep you all in the church, and have you
willingly grant me unrestricted freedom of speech; but whether you go or
stay I cannot put my neck under the yoke that you have prepared for it.”
With this interview, so far as I am aware, ended their efforts to drive
me from my post or to padlock my lips.
The sermon that provoked so much opposition had in itself no special
merit. It was the time of its utterance, and the circumstances in which
we were then living, that gave it importance. It proved to have been the
first out and out Union sermon preached in St. Louis, and, with the
sermons of other preachers North and South, was published in Moore’s
Rebellion Record. There are some sentences in it that must be set down
both to the hot blood of youth and the aggravation of the times; but at
all events it was an utterance of intense conviction.
But in our varied experiences it is clear that the good far outweighed
the bad. There was more honey than gall, more love than hate, more
self-sacrificing toil for others than self-seeking; and while some
Christian pastors were anxious and harassed, and all churches were more
or less agitated and some of them divided, in the face of a common
danger, sectarianism for the time being seemed to be utterly swept away.
In the loyal churches men and women, irrespective of denomination,
frequently met to pray for the Republic. Trinitarian and Unitarian,
Baptist and Methodist, Presbyterian, Congregationalist and Episcopalian
stood or kneeled side by side and poured out their petitions to God for
our distracted city and country. They prayed with special fervency for
the President, his Cabinet, the deliberating Congress and gathering
army.
In addition to the meetings in the different churches, we frequently met
for prayer at nine o’clock in the morning in one of the large halls of
the city. There were often from fifteen hundred to two thousand present.
At the close of each devotional hour the whole congregation rose and
simultaneously lifting up their right hands repeated in concert, after
the leader of the meeting, the oath of allegiance to the government of
the United States. During my life I have looked upon many impressive
scenes, but never upon one so morally sublime as that. At each
repetition of that oath, the loyalty of every one that took it with his
hand uplifted to the God of nations, daily grew deeper and stronger.
Every one thus crowning his prayer for his country with his oath of
fealty to it went out from those meetings with a mightier purpose to do
all within his power to maintain the integrity of the Union.
There were many very peculiar incidents in the churches, growing out of
the excitement of the time, some of which are indelibly impressed upon
my mind. An eccentric lawyer regularly attended the weekly
prayer-meeting of my church. He rightly held that we should be specific
in our prayers, and lived up fully to his conviction. He was very tall,
and while offering prayer he usually stood by a supporting post and
leaned his head sidewise against it, reminding one of a massive prop
placed to strengthen a weakening pillar. In that unusual attitude of
body, he asked God with minute particularity for the things that he
desired. When he prayed for any public official or general in the army
he called him by name. He prayed for the soldiers that they might have
good health and strength, and courage in battle, and be obedient to
their commanding officers, and that God would direct the Minie balls
when they shot and make them effective, that the enemies of our country
might be speedily subdued. Whatever any one may think of such prayers,
they at all events caught the attention of even the dullest and waked up
the sleepers.
We note also a very different incident, which was still more indicative
of the feelings which at that time swayed many minds in our city. A lady
of my congregation was exceedingly prejudiced against preaching
politics, without having any clear notion of what politics was. She once
sat immediately before me when I was speaking to the children of the
Sunday-school. To illustrate and enforce my thought, I related an
incident concerning a drummer-boy, whereupon she nudged with her elbow a
woman who sat by her side, and said in a tone so loud that I distinctly
heard her, “I do wish the pastor would let politics alone.”
An excellent Presbyterian pastor, with whom I often conversed, was
greatly perplexed as to whether he should preach on the subject of
secession. He was intensely loyal; but his church was not large and in
national politics was apparently about equally divided. In determining
his duty he sought my counsel. I told him that, taking into account all
the circumstances, he ought in my judgment to forego, for a time at
least, the public discussion of the national problem. While he seemed
satisfied that I had pointed out what was wisest for him to do, he found
it very difficult to keep silent concerning his country even for a
season. Patriotism burned hotly within his heart. To get some relief he
preached one Sunday afternoon on Paul’s words, “I have fought the good
fight.” He began his sermon by saying, “There are then some fights that
are good. The fight against sin is a good fight. The fight against the
devil is a good fight.” But just as he pronounced the last sentence, a
pew-door flew open spitefully, and one of the ablest women of his church
walked excitedly down the middle aisle and out of the outer door, never
again to return. Immediately after the service he went to see her. He
went too soon. She had not had time to cool; moreover his prompt visit
tended to pamper her self-importance. He gently asked why she left the
church so abruptly? She replied that she left because she was offended,
and said that she thought he ought not to have preached from that text.
But he inquired why that text displeased her. She said, “Did you not say
that some fights are good fights?” “Certainly,” he replied, “and are
they not?” “Oh, yes,” she responded, “but you meant the fight against
the Southern Confederacy.” That was probably the fact. He was giving,
perhaps unconsciously, just a little vent to his own flaming patriotism.
She felt it. She intuitively knew it. He could not persuade her to
return to her place and her duty. That good pastor, sorely beset and
tried, at last delivered fully his patriotic message and resigned. From
such an event we learn how difficult it was to be a good and faithful
minister of Christ in a border city at the beginning of our civil war.
But there were also many cheering occurrences during those dismal days;
some deeds of sense and self-restraint illumined the thickening gloom.
“How far that little candle throws his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.”
Early in 1861, before the river to the South was obstructed, a Christian
gentleman from Mississippi often came up to St. Louis on business.
Whenever he stayed over Sunday he worshipped with my congregation. He
was a pro-slavery man and a secessionist. In those days I always prayed
publicly for the country, for all that were in authority, and that all
efforts to break up the Union might be thwarted. One of my brethren
asked him if the prayers did not offend him. He pleasantly replied, “No,
not at all; I pray with your pastor till he gets to the country, and
then I just skip that.” He was one of those rare souls that in a time of
discord and conflict are lifted above unseemly passion, and kept with
his brethren, from whom he politically differed, “the unity of the
Spirit in the bond of peace.”
Nor must I fail to notice a warm-hearted, impulsive member of my church,
a Kentuckian by birth. He firmly believed that secession was
constitutional and right, and that slavery was of divine origin. He had
not yet learned that “what is inhuman cannot be divine.” He was filled
with indignation when I maintained in the pulpit that there was no just
cause for rebellion against the Federal government, and that instead we
were under solemn obligation to obey it; notwithstanding, soon after he
invited me, together with my wife, to dine at his house just outside the
city. At the appointed time he sent his carriage for us. On our arrival,
after warmly greeting us at the gate, he said to me, “I think that you
had no right to preach on the subject of secession; but you thought you
had, and I do not think that this difference of opinion should destroy
our Christian fellowship. You have had your say, and now that I have had
mine, be so good as to walk into the house and make yourselves at home.”
I assured him that his position was altogether satisfactory to me; and
that I rejoiced that we could hold and express antagonistic political
views without marring our brotherly love. Considering how fiery the
disposition of this good man was, the stand that he took was as
gratifying as it was surprising. The grace of the gentle and forgiving
Lord, in whom he trusted and whom he loved, had in some measure been
imparted to his own soul. Thus in the midst of much that was unlovely
and repulsive there were here and there many noble acts that fascinated
us, and allured us to Christ-like living.
From the few incidents which we have here presented, it is painfully
evident that at the beginning of the war the influence of the pulpits
and churches of St. Louis in shaping public opinion on national
questions was sadly divided. Some of them were decidedly for the Union;
some were just as decidedly for secession; in some churches the
membership was so evenly divided between Unionism and secessionism that
it was deemed inexpedient to make any allusion in the pulpit to the
great national issue. All things considered, the preponderating
influence of the pulpits and churches seemed to be in favor of
secession. But as time rolled on the Union sentiment of the churches
gradually became stronger, and before the close of the war decidedly
predominant. Some pastors, unquestionably loyal to the general
government, at first doubted the expediency of publicly expressing their
views, but finally boldly uttered their entire thought. As a whole the
Union pastors were as true as steel, and each in his own chosen time, in
the midst of clashing forces and interests, unflinchingly did his
patriotic duty. The state of affairs was such as might reasonably have
baffled the wisdom of the wisest. It was a time that tried men’s souls.
But the press was quite as dubious in its testimony and influence as the
pulpit. There were in our city over fifty periodicals of all sorts. Full
half of these either advocated or apologized for secession; and some of
those that stood for the Union were faint-hearted and spoke with
hesitation and feebleness. There were eleven dailies, great and
small—and some of them were very small, their editors scarcely knowing
in the tumult surging around them whether their souls were their own.
And since to a large extent each citizen took his cue from the paper
that he read, the press, take it all in all, propagated among the masses
of the city much of its own dubiousness and bewilderment. However among
the dailies were two great political organs, that did much to mould
public sentiment, _The Missouri Democrat_ and _The Missouri Republican_.
Their very names confused strangers, since the _Democrat_ was the organ
of the Republicans, and the _Republican_ was the organ of the Democrats.
The _Democrat_ years before had been established in the interests of
Free-soilism, which had long been a pronounced and growing sentiment in
Missouri and especially in St. Louis. It naturally therefore became the
organ of the Republican party, and was uncompromisingly for the Union.
Its trumpet always rang out loud and clear; it had no uncertain sound.
The paper had able editors who advocated the cause of the Union with
unusual clearness, breadth and power. They permitted no one, whether he
were keen or dull, to misunderstand them. So, in a reign of doubt and
bitter conflict, their paper became a mighty ally of the Federal
government, and did much to bring order out of confusion, to harmonize
antagonistic forces, and at last to restore the reign of civil law. It
is doubtful if this great journal ever received its just meed of praise.
Noiselessly, day by day, it scattered in thousands of homes its message
in behalf of the Union. That message gradually cleared the vision of
those who read. Friends of the general government were multiplied by it.
It was a tremendous force for the right. Its influence for all that was
truest and best in government can no more be gathered up and weighed
than one can collect and weigh the sunbeams.
Its great rival, _The Missouri Republican_, was also a power, and, on
the whole, for good. It was exceedingly conservative, and by its
utterances did much to moderate and cool burning and unreasoning
passion. It seemed usually to be nicely balanced on the fence. It had
two editors, one a secessionist, the other a Unionist. The secessionist
was somewhat advanced in years and, after writing his editorial, left
his office for the day about four o’clock in the afternoon. The Unionist
editor was much younger, and wrote his editorial about nine o’clock at
night. And these two editorials, conservatively advocating opposite
views of the great national conflict, daily appeared side by side. But
this old and influential journal was very widely read, and, consistently
with its position of neutrality, published any decent and reasonable
article for, or against, the Union. Its constituency, though largely
disloyal in sentiment, read what it published on behalf of the Union. So
to their own advantage, as well as to that of the Federal government,
they were thus led to read and think much on both sides of the question
that was then dividing the nation. But the general public, deeming it a
weakness and a sign of duplicity to receive and publish all sorts of
articles, advocating the most diverse and contradictory views, with more
force than elegance dubbed this great paper, “The swill-tub.”
Nevertheless, it seems reasonable, all things considered, that to have
had then and there one such journal was a mighty power for good.
Early in the summer of 1861, when the people had become eager for war
news, some of the papers began to issue evening editions. This new move
was sensational simply because it was unusual. A wag, commenting upon
it, said, “They issue these evening editions to contradict the lies that
they tell in the morning.” But neither editors nor their critics,
especially in times of social upheaval and commotion, can at once
determine what among flying rumors is true and what is false.
Now if we ask in what direction at the beginning of the war, the press
of St. Louis threw its influence, we see that taken as a whole, like the
pulpit, it was double-tongued. Some journals were for and some against
secession. Some were vacillating, at times both for and against—they
blew both hot and cold; some were simply bewildered; some
half-apologized for the rebellion; some were lost in the fog of State
sovereignty. The editors on either side of the national question, and
those on the fence, were doubtless honest; nevertheless their varied and
discordant voices confused the public mind. It was not strange that the
people were divided. They listened to a divided pulpit; they read the
deliverances of a divided press. But while amid this din of antagonistic
voices some were confused, many in downright earnestness began to think
for themselves, and in spite of the clashing utterances of the pulpit
and the press, at last thought themselves out of the mist into the clear
light of day.