It was April 10th, 1865, the last day of the Constitutional Convention. As, in the morning, the Convention began listlessly and wearily to do the formal and necessary things before its final adjournment, a telegram was received announcing the surrender of General Lee on the preceding day to General Grant at Appomattox. The effect was electric. In a flash all dulness and languor fled. For the nonce all differences of opinion vanished. All hearts were surcharged with patriotic emotion. The die was cast. The integrity of the Union was assured. From all parts of the hall came shouts of joy; delegates and spectators vied with each other in expressions of gladness. They clapped, stamped and cried, “The Union forever!” Mr. Drake, the leader of the Convention, finally got the ear of the rejoicing patriots and gravely moved that they give cheers three times three “for the glorious news just now received.” They were given with full lung power. Those nine hurrahs brought the members of the Convention to quietude once more, and they proceeded by resolution to thank “Almighty God for the success of our noble and patriotic army and navy; for the steady and persistent perseverance of our noble President in the work of breaking the power of the rebellion; and especially for the noble and humane disposition which has been manifested by our authorities to our conquered enemy.” But they also declared, that they were not ready “to sanction any terms of peace which will admit of the perpetuation of slavery in any part of the Republic.” While this last resolution was well enough as an expression of opinion, it showed, at the very last, a disposition on the part of the Convention to get beyond its jurisdiction and attempt to shape the policy of the general government. Its remaining routine work was soon done. Its life ended. But the city and State, rejoicing over the close of the war, scarcely noted it. Those who did notice its termination were twice glad; glad that it had adjourned sine die and that national peace, founded in justice, had come.

That 10th of April was memorable not only for the whole nation, but also especially for St. Louis. A border city, which, for four long years, had been a bone of contention, fought over and snarled over by the dogs of war, had perhaps a keener appreciation of the surrender of the illustrious Lee, than could be found in any city far to the north of Mason and Dixon’s line. At all events no pen however able and eloquent could adequately depict our joy on the day which followed Grant’s final victory in Virginia. No business was done, except that which was most necessary and perfunctory. Men spontaneously gathered in crowds, their faces radiant, their lips rippling with smiles; they shook hands with firm grip; with tears starting in their eyes they talked of the surrender; all bitterness seemed to be gone; there was little or no exultation over those who had laid down their arms; men on every hand just brimmed over with gladness that the fratricidal strife had ended, and that slavery, the fruitful cause of our greatest woes, was no more.

And it was remarkable how few secessionists there were in our city on that day. During the four preceding years they had been alarmingly numerous, but now only a very few could be found; they had been strangely and magically transformed into Unionists. Even those who for four years had sat on the fence hopped off on the Union side, flapped their wings and crowed.

Still our city was not a unit in political thought and sentiment. While Grant’s victory caused the great multitude to rejoice, it was wormwood and gall to the few, who, in spite of disaster to the Confederacy, were still faithful to it. While their neighbors were exultant, they bitterly mourned. The city put on its gala dress. Public buildings and private dwellings were lavishly decorated with red, white and blue. National flags of all sizes were flung to the breeze. But here and there a house was flagless. Within sat sad and sombre secessionists sighing over their shattered hopes. They refused to be comforted. At night once more the bells rang, bands played, bonfires blazed, cannon boomed, and the windows of most buildings, public and private, were illuminated; while in public halls the people gathered to listen to patriotic speeches and to sing the most popular and stirring war songs. “The Star Spangled Banner,” “Rally Round the Flag, Boys,” and “The Soul of Old John Brown,” had a large place in our festivity, while “My Country, ’Tis of Thee,” was sung as the crowning and parting hymn.

But sorrow and tears trod on the heels of joy. April 15th, five days after our exultant celebration of Lee’s surrender, came the astounding news that our great President had been shot the night before at Ford’s Theatre, in Washington, and that he had died in the morning. For an hour or two we were dazed by this sudden and overwhelming calamity. No one thought of doing business. Those who gathered on the Board of Trade did nothing but talk over the crushing national sorrow. Men as if in a dream moved along the streets; few said anything; they dumbly shook hands and passed sadly on; as the most stalwart met, tears started; the city was silent and a pall of gloom rested upon all. Men at last began slowly to drift together in companies upon the streets. They conversed in low but earnest tones. Beneath that calm exterior fierce passion burned.

On Fourth Street a great, excited crowd had instinctively gathered; they, like all others, were talking over the appalling national loss. A stranger passed by. They thought that he expressed himself as pleased with the assassination of Mr. Lincoln. In a moment the pent up fires within them flashed forth. They seized the stranger, beat him, dragged him roughly along the pavement, he all the time pleading to be heard. At last they listened to his statement and were convinced that they had quite misunderstood what they believed to have been a grossly offensive utterance. They were deeply ashamed of what they had passionately done, and humbly apologized for it. But the incident showed that the life of any one in our city, who, on that day, should have openly approved of the murder of the President, would have been indignantly snuffed out.

Throughout the city all flags were at half-mast. On public buildings, churches and private dwellings, the emblems of rejoicing gave place to those of mourning. Public sentiment was such that no one living in the better part of the residential districts dared to withhold the ordinary tokens of the general sorrow. Houses that five days before were conspicuously dark amid the almost universal illumination were now draped in black; some it may be in self-defence, but probably in most cases as the expression of genuine sorrow. Though the Confederacy for which the secessionists of our city had worked and prayed was irretrievably lost, they had at least come to respect Mr. Lincoln, not only for his unswerving fidelity to what he believed to be the right, but also for his broad charity, and not a few of them, while still differing from him politically, admired him as a man. They recognized in him a great and generous friend of the South, and so joined with us, on that day of tears, in eulogizing the martyr and denouncing his assassin. The same lips that four years before had scornfully called him clown, the Illinois ape, baboon and gorilla, now praised him. He had not only subdued the rebellion by force of arms, but also by his clearness of conception, fairness in administration, unflinching advocacy of the rights of all, patience and persistence in duty, and large-heartedness, had conquered their inveterate prejudices.

In the afternoon of that day of sorrow, the churches were thrown open, and large congregations met to pray. They poured out their hearts in thanksgiving to God for the unsullied life of the martyred President; for his courage and wisdom in proclaiming liberty to the captive, and freedom to the oppressed. They prayed for his constitutional successor in office, and for God’s blessing on the people both North and South. Nor did they forget the assassin whose wanton act had bowed a nation in grief. In all their utterances they were calm and sane, as men always are when, in submission to the will of God, they commune with Him. At last the curtain of darkness fell on that terrible day, and men with throbbing brows and aching hearts lay down to rest; but to many, if sleep came at all, it came but fitfully. We seemed to be living in a new world. One era of our national life had ended, another had begun. And with ever new experiences our mourning was prolonged as from day to day with the whole Republic we followed in thought the dust of the immortal martyr to its last resting-place at Springfield, Illinois. It was most fitting that it should lie near the home of his early manhood, and in the State that he, in larger measure than any other, had made illustrious.

Thirty days after the assassination of Mr. Lincoln, the Baptist Missionary Societies of the North held, by urgent invitation, their May Meetings in our city. This had been made possible by the war. The churches of this great denomination had long been divided by slavery; but now the delegates from the churches of the North came to hold out the olive branch to their brethren of the South on what had been slave soil. They came by hundreds. The city gave them a royal welcome. Christians of all denominations threw open their doors to them and lavished upon them their hospitality. It was an era of good feeling. Denominationalism and the irritating questions of the war decidedly fell into the background.

But there was another side to the picture. Southern Baptists, except from the national capital, did not come to us. The olive branch seemed to be held out in vain. The brotherly act was even misconstrued. The coming of these Northern missionary societies to our city was regarded as an unwarrantable invasion of Southern soil. Forty years had to pass away, a generation had to die in the wilderness, before, in St. Louis, during the progress of the May Meetings of the same societies, Northern and Southern Baptists, standing face to face, truly fraternized with each other and sang heartily:

There was one unique incident at the meetings in 1865, that deserves special notice. The name of the martyred President was on all lips. Men were just beginning to understand and appreciate something of his greatness, both of mind and heart. It was whispered in the ears of our guests that an artist of our city, A. J. Conant, had painted, from sittings, a portrait of Mr. Lincoln. He was invited to unveil this portrait before the assembled delegates. He did so. A great and distinguished company greeted it with enthusiasm and cheers; and were specially delighted to hear the artist’s account of what the great President did and said while he kindly sat for his portrait,—what quaint and suggestive stories he told. The portrait was painted before Mr. Lincoln’s first inauguration. His face was then smooth shaven. He had not yet covered up with scraggly whiskers the rugged outlines of his lower jaw, which, from a side view, as some one has said, was shaped like the keel of a three-masted schooner.^[114] It is doubtful if any one has produced a better portrait of that strong face with its undertone of sadness.

A little later the Presbyterians held a convention in our city. This too was an outcome of the war. In May, their General Assembly at Pittsburg had enacted some severe and radical measures in reference to slavery and loyalty to the national government. Many Presbyterians, especially of the border States, protested against this. The convention was called to consider the whole question. There were over two hundred delegates, mainly from the North; probably not a score of them were from the border States, including Missouri.^[115] The aggrieved States were very slimly represented. The synod of Missouri was so opposed to the legislation of the General Assembly as to ask permission peaceably to withdraw from it. Their request was very earnestly debated. A pastor from Brooklyn, N. Y., joined hands with a pastor of St. Louis in behalf of the recalcitrant synod, urging, by great ingenuity of argument, that the synod should be permitted unmolested to secede. In their impassioned appeals on behalf of the aggrieved synod they were at times so eloquent that the galleries burst out into applause. The ladies waved their handkerchiefs. The style of the brother from our city was often quite flowery. These two defenders of the refractory synod sometimes complained in their speeches that they were not being fairly dealt with, and posed as martyrs; at other times their language became somewhat threatening.

But at last a Scotchman from Ohio got the floor. His speech was replete with mingled humor and sarcasm. The delegates and spectators were at times convulsed with laughter. Among other things he said, with a decided Scotch accent, “Mr. Moderator, the brethren who have defended the synod that wishes to secede have posed as martyrs. What is a martyr? In the time of the early church it was one who suffered for the truth which he believed and advocated. He was thrown to wild beasts and was torn limb from limb; or he was sewed in a sack and thrown into the Tiber, or he was burned at the stake. But what is a modern martyr? It is to live on Brooklyn Heights and be sent to Europe for the bronchitis.” A too personal thrust at the delegate from Brooklyn. “What is a modern martyr? It is to make an eloquent speech in an assembly like this and have the fair in the galleries wave their handkerchiefs. But the speech of the brother from this city brought to my mind an experience of my school days. I wrote an oration and handed it to my teacher for correction. When he had examined it he called me to him and said, ‘Taylor, if you would only pluck a few feathers from the wings of your imagination and stick them into the tail of your judgment, you would write a great deal better.’

“And then, if I heard correctly, we are threatened with disaster if we now vote against permitting this seceding synod to depart in peace. But shall we by threats be deterred from our duty? Having already cut off the seven hydra heads of secession, shall we now be frightened with the wriggle of its tail?”

This was the climax. There was long continued laughter and applause, which the moderator was unable to check. Peaceable secession found no more favor in this Presbyterian Convention than it had found under the general government of the United States. Secession was dead.

At last the end of strife in Missouri had come. It came in fact even before the surrender of Lee. Three days after the second inauguration of Mr. Lincoln, Governor Fletcher declared by proclamation that no organized armed force against the general government any longer existed in the State. He called upon all civil officers to resume their duties. And on the 17th of March, Major-General Pope, then in command of the Department of Missouri, issued orders to aid in carrying out the proclamation of the Governor. He withdrew the military forces from all districts where the people were ready to return in good faith to civil rule, and by August there remained less than a dozen military posts in the State; and these were kept up chiefly for the protection of the property of the Federal government.

And now rejoicing in peace which was based upon righteousness, St. Louis entered upon an era of great prosperity. She grew apace in commerce, wealth and population. No longer, as Carl Schurz characterized her before the war, “a free city on slave soil,” but a great free city on free soil.