For many years the subject of slavery, in its varied aspects, had been constantly and hotly discussed in all political and religious journals, on the stump, in the pulpit, and in the Congress of the United States. The higher law doctrine, propounded by William H. Seward, the repeal of the Missouri Compromise in 1854, the Kansas war, Lincoln’s celebrated debate with Douglas, and his pregnant declaration in 1858, that the nation could not continue to exist half slave and half free, that “a house divided against itself cannot stand,” had greatly agitated the whole nation. In the hearts of pro-slavery men, vengeful fire was smouldering; it needed only an added breath to make it shoot up into a devouring flame. The apprehensiveness and extreme sensitiveness of pro-slavery Missouri manifested itself in the winter of 1859–60, through its legislature. That body of lawmakers passed a bill by an overwhelming majority, expelling from the State all free negroes. There were more than a thousand of that class in St. Louis, and a large majority of these were females, doing domestic service in the best families of the city. The excitement caused by this short-sighted action of the legislature was intense. The bill enacted was a declaration in the form of law, that the presence of free negroes was a menace to slavery. Many men in St. Louis were asking with flushed faces, “What shall be done to meet this emergency, to avert this calamity?”

I met on the street one of the coolest men that it has been my lot to know during a long life, and even he, whose spirit never seemed to be ruffled by any exasperating event, was hot with indignation. With great vehemence he denounced the barbarous legislation, and said that something must be done to thwart its purpose. But on inquiry I found that he was unable to suggest any line of action by which this vicious legislation could be neutralized.

Now let us note in contrast another man. There was a negro pastor in the city by the name of Richard Anderson. When a boy he was a slave, and had been brought from Virginia to Missouri. When he was twelve years old his master, Mr. Bates, had given him his freedom. He now began to do odd jobs about the city. He became a newspaper carrier, and thus aided in distributing among its subscribers The Missouri Republican. While doing his work he learned to read; the newspaper that he carried from door to door was his spelling-book and school reader. With his ability to read came broader intelligence. He industriously thumbed and mastered good books. The Bible was constantly read by him. He became a Christian. He was called to be a preacher and pastor. He was a large man of commanding presence, a descendant of an African chief. He was very black. While his nose was somewhat flattened, it was straight and sharply cut; his thick lips were firmly set. His eyes were large and lustrous, his forehead was high and broad. He preached well. His manner was quiet, suggesting reserved power; his thought was orderly and clear. He had great power over an audience. If his black hearers became noisy with their shouting of “amen” and “hallelujah,” by a gentle wave of the hand he reduced them to silence. He was a born leader, but he led by the inherent force of his character. One of his deacons said, “He led us all by a spider’s web.” He was universally respected, and was welcome to all houses where the members of his church were employed. He never betrayed any confidence reposed in him. Like his Master “he went about doing good.” Nothing diverted him from his purpose. Nothing seemed to disturb his equanimity. While he sometimes burned with indignation, he never lost control of himself. He was a man of rare balance of mind.

He presided over a church of a thousand members. Fully half of them were free. The bill for the expulsion of free negroes from the State fell with greater severity upon him than upon any other man in St. Louis. I met him expecting that he would be greatly agitated and cast down; but was surprised to find him absolutely unruffled. I ventured to ask him if he had heard of the recent legislation pertaining to free negroes. He quietly replied that he had, and then added with emphasis, “That bill will never become a law.” With mingled curiosity and surprise I asked, “How do you know that?” Lifting his hand and pointing upward toward heaven, and turning his eyes thitherward he replied, “I know because I have asked up there.” Calm and assured as he was, I feared that he was the victim of a fatal illusion from which he might be soon rudely awakened. But nothing that I said in opposition to his conclusion moved him in the slightest degree from his conviction.

Time soon showed that this black man with his great, calm soul, and unswerving faith was right. Hon. R. M. Stewart was then governor of the state. He was a staunch Bourbon Democrat. He believed slavery to be right. He drank whiskey freely and said: “Cotton is not king, but corn and corn-whiskey are king.” He knew that. He spoke from abundant and sad experience.

But he had been brought up in eastern New York. The doctrine that all men, irrespective of color, have an inalienable right to liberty had been breathed in with the air of his native hills, and had become part and parcel of his life-blood. As he looked at that infamous bill, passed almost unanimously, the teaching received in boyhood asserted itself. It was stronger than his pro-slavery Bourbonism, stronger than party ties; his soul was in revolt against this shameless iniquity. If, however, he should veto the bill, these legislators would quickly pass it over his head. So he took the only course by which it could be effectually defeated. The legislature was about to adjourn. It was his constitutional privilege to retain the bill instead of returning it with his signature or his veto. If he did not return it within twenty days, it failed to become a law. He pocketed it, and the free negroes were left in peace. And who can say that the praying, believing, black pastor did not know?

But although this execrable legislation failed, it left its indelible mark on the public mind. Men were made by it sensitive and suspicious. They doubted, as never before, the possibility of maintaining a government which extended its ægis over forces so utterly antagonistic as freedom and slavery. In this portentous state of the public mind the presidential campaign of 1860 began. Throughout the Union the political conflict was fierce, but in Missouri, and in its great commercial city, St. Louis, it was unusually hot and acrimonious. African slavery was the distracting problem. None attempted to disguise it. Men on every hand spoke plainly and boldly. Most of the people of the slave states, and the citizens of Missouri among the rest, believed with all their hearts that if the Republican party should be successful at the polls, henceforth slavery would probably be excluded from the territories, and, at no distant day, would become extinct even in the states. They seemed to see on the wall the handwriting that foretold its doom. Their more fiery orators declared that if slavery were hemmed into the states, “like a scorpion girt by fire, it would sting itself to death.” This was a most unfortunate simile with which to characterize an institution that they stoutly contended was not only beneficent, but also divine.

They regarded the Republican candidate for the Presidency as the embodiment of all their apprehended woes, and so they poured out upon him without stint their bitterest execrations. In this they were encouraged by the outrageous cartoons of Harper’s Weekly. In one of its issues he was depicted in ludicrous, not to say horrible, uncouthness of figure, as drunk in a bar-room. The moral turpitude of such a representation was simply unspeakable when we remember that Mr. Lincoln in his boyhood promised his mother that he would never drink intoxicating liquor and had sacredly kept his word. In another issue of the Weekly he was portrayed as frightened by ghosts, his shocky hair standing on end. So, sustained by a widely read Northern journal in their grotesque and monstrous representations of Mr. Lincoln, many of them, not all, emptied upon him a flood of billingsgate. Some in common conversation, others in their political harangues on the stump, called him an idiot, a buffoon, a baboon, the Illinois ape, a gorilla.

But in St. Louis there were from fifty to sixty thousand Germans, and they were almost solidly Republican. During this vituperative presidential canvass they invited Carl Schurz to address them and their fellow-citizens, on the burning question of the hour. He was not as widely known then as he afterwards became; still he had already acquired considerable reputation as a political speaker. Moreover, he came to us from a free state, and a host of men in the city were anxious to hear what this German from Wisconsin had to say to them concerning our great national problem. In the evening of the first of August, 1860, he appeared in Verandah Hall. Fully three thousand enthusiastic souls were there to greet him and hear him. He spoke, as was his custom, from manuscript. His subject was, “The Doom of Slavery.” With rare lucidity and forcefulness he justly stated the position of slavery and showed that, from its very nature, it could not permit men on its own soil freely to discuss it; nor could it safely permit the slaves to be educated except for servants, lest thereby there might be engendered within them aspirations for freedom incompatible with involuntary servitude; nor could slavery favor the development of domestic industries, since that would build up the free states more rapidly than their own, and so disturb the political equilibrium of the Republic; and for the same reason slavery could not consent to be kept out of the territories of the Northwest.

In contrast with this, he stated with equal clearness and cogency the position of free labor. It requires the highest advantages, educational and industrial, for all; instead of class privileges it demands privileges that are universal. He showed the utter incompatibility of slavery and free labor.

With unusual incisiveness he now analyzed the platforms of the parties that were then appealing to the people for their suffrages, pouring out his racy satire especially on squatter sovereignty or non-intervention, of which Senator Douglas of Illinois was the champion.

In the latter part of his masterful speech, by the clearest and most trenchant argument, he revealed the egregious folly of attempting to dissolve the Union, and then powerfully appealed to the reason and good sense of the slaveholders, some of whom sat before him, and urged them to abandon their position.

Two short paragraphs will reveal in some measure the spirit with which the orator spoke. He said: “I hear the silly objection that your sense of honor forbids you to desert your cause. Sense of honor! Imagine a future generation standing around the tombstone of the bravest of you, and reading the inscription, ‘Here lies a gallant man, who fought and died for the cause—of human slavery.’ What will the verdict be? His very progeny will disown him, and exclaim, ‘He must have been either a knave or a fool.’ There is not one of you who, if he could rise from the dead a century hence, would not gladly exchange his epitaph for that of the meanest of those who were hung at Charlestown.”

“I turn to you, Republicans of Missouri. Your countrymen owe you a debt of admiration and gratitude to which my poor voice can give but a feeble expression. You have undertaken the noble task of showing the people of the North that the slaveholding States themselves contain the elements of regeneration, and of demonstrating to the South how that regeneration can be effected. You have inspired the wavering masses with confidence in the practicability of our ideas. To the North you have given encouragement; to the South you have set an example. Let me entreat you not to underrate your noble vocation. Struggle on, brave men! The anxious wishes of millions are hovering around you. Struggle on until the banner of emancipation is planted upon the Capitol of your State, and one of the proudest chapters of our history will read: Missouri led the van, and the nation followed.” (Immense and long continued cheering.)

It was a great speech, profoundly philosophical, keen in analysis, virile in argument, brilliant in style, and absolutely and refreshingly fearless. It strengthened feeble knees, stiffened gelatinous backbones, and gave courage to the faint-hearted. Again and again the great throng that listened broke out into rapturous applause. Thinking men were profoundly stirred. The free-soilers who for many months had been battling against fearful odds for the freedom of all, from that hour walked with firmer tread. One could feel in it all the first breath of the coming battle between freedom and slavery.

At last the canvass was over; November came; the ballots were cast and counted, and, in spite of all the abuse heaped upon him, Mr. Lincoln was triumphantly elected. In the slave State of Missouri, he received more than seventeen thousand votes, almost wholly in St. Louis, Gasconade and Cole counties.^[3] To me it has always been a genuine joy that it fell to my lot to cast one of those ballots. They were ballots of freedom and progress.

After the election, all those in St. Louis, who had hoped against hope that the Republican party might be defeated, seemed to settle down into sullen, silent, blank despair. Under the circumstances no one cared to talk openly. Those whose hearts were full of joy over the outcome of the battle of ballots gave little or no public expression of their gladness, lest they might unduly vex their disappointed and downhearted neighbors; while most of the latter rigidly refrained from openly proclaiming their bitter chagrin over their defeat, lest they might augment the elation of the victors. Moreover, most of those in St. Louis, irrespective of their party affiliations, felt the supreme importance of keeping the peace of the city unbroken. A large minority, however, were too proud to give expression to their despair, but thought in silence, and, as subsequent events proved, much of their thinking was desperate. From one cause or another all, so far as public utterance was concerned, held their peace, but it was that ominous stillness that precedes the bursting of the storm.

But underneath this surface-calm there were clandestine, but energetic, movements that portended armed conflict. There were two formidable political clubs in the city. The one was the Wide-Awakes. This was Republican in politics. It was made up of the most progressive young men of St. Louis. Many of them had just come into the Republican ranks; their political faith was new; they had the zeal and enthusiasm of recent converts. They were also stimulated by the fact that they were called upon to maintain their political doctrine in the face of the stoutest opposition. With their torchlights they had just been marching and hurrahing for Lincoln. They had cheered the vigorous speeches of their brilliant orators. Their candidate, though defeated in their city and State, had been triumphantly elected to the Presidency. Such a body of men, flushed with victory, was a political force which every thoughtful man saw must be reckoned with.

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.

But on New Year’s Day of 1861 we were startled by an event altogether unique. It filled many pro-slavery men with bitter resentment, but put new life and hope into anti-slavery men of all shades of opinion, and even some who were supposed to uphold slavery were amused and in their secret souls rejoiced over the strange happening. It came to pass in this wise. When estates in St. Louis and St. Louis County were in process of settlement, there were often slaves belonging to them that must be disposed of at their market value. But when there was no immediate demand for such property these poor creatures were put for safe keeping into the county jail, until they could be sold. Of course they were not regarded as criminals, but simply as valuable assets that, having brains, and wills, and consciences, might run away, to the financial detriment of voracious heirs. So, until the conditions were favorable for a sale, these self-willed chattels were securely lodged behind the stone walls and barred doors and windows of the malodorous jail.

In connection with this reprehensible procedure, a culpable custom had sprung up,—a custom exceedingly offensive to most of the inhabitants of St. Louis. It had become the duty of the sheriff, or his deputy, when the kind-hearted heirs gave the order, to sell at auction, on New Year’s Day, these imprisoned slaves from the granite steps of the Court-house. So, on the first of January, 1861, a slave auctioneer appeared with seven colored chattels of various hues, the thinking fag-ends of estates, just led out by him from the jail, where, some of them, for more than a year, without having been charged with any crime or misdemeanor, had been forced to be the companions of thieves, adulterers, and murderers. The auctioneer placed these cowering slaves on the pedestal of one of the massive pillars of the Court-house. Crowning the cupola of this building, dedicated to the righteous interpretation and execution of the law, was a statue of Justice, with eyes blindfolded, holding in her hand a pair of scales, the symbol of impartial equity. From the top of the great granite pillar, beside which these shrinking human chattels stood, waved for the hour a star-spangled banner, the symbol of freedom for all the oppressed. This auction of slaves had been extensively advertised, and about two thousand young men had secretly banded themselves together to stop the sale and, if possible, put an end to this annual disgrace. The auctioneer on his arrival at the Court-house found this crowd of freemen in a dense mass waiting for him. The sight of bondmen about to be offered for sale, and that too under the floating folds of their national flag, crimsoned their cheeks with shame and made their hearts hot within them. Yet they scarcely uttered a word as they stood watching the auctioneer and the timid, shrinking slaves at his side. At last he was ready and cried out, “What will you bid for this able-bodied boy?^[5] There’s not a blemish on him.” Then the indignant, determined crowd in response cried out, at the top of their lungs, “Three dollars, three dollars,” and without a break kept up the cry for twenty minutes or more. The auctioneer yelled to make himself heard above that deafening din of voices, but it was all in vain. At last, however, the cry of the crowd died away. Was it simply a good-natured joke only carried a little too far? The auctioneer seemed to be in doubt how to take that vociferating throng. “Now,” he said in a bantering tone, “gentlemen, don’t make fools of yourselves; how much will you bid for this boy?” Then, for many minutes, they shouted, “Four dollars, four dollars,” and the frantic cries of the auctioneer were swallowed up in that babel of yells; his efforts were as futile as if he had attempted to whistle a tornado into silence. To the joy of that crowd of young men the auctioneer was at last in a rage. It had dawned upon him that this was no joke; that the crowd before him were not shouting for fun on this annual holiday, but were in dead earnest. When their cries once more died away, he soundly berated them for their conduct. But they answered his scolding and storming with jeers and catcalls. At last he again asked, “How much will you bid for this first-class nigger?” This was answered by a simultaneous shout of “Five dollars, five dollars,” and the roar of voices did not stop for a quarter of an hour. And so the battle went on. The bid did not get above eight dollars, and at the end of two hours of exasperating and futile effort, the defeated auctioneer led his ebony charges back to the jail. Through the force of public opinion freedom had triumphed. No public auction of slaves was ever again attempted in St. Louis. But in the cries and counter cries of the auctioneer and that throng of freemen could be felt the pulsations of the coming conflict. We had before us in concrete form Lincoln’s doctrine, that the nation cannot exist half slave and half free.