But the unseemly virulence of some prompted them to deeds of violence. In the autumn of 1861, a young Southern fire-eater appeared one morning on Fourth Street before the Planters’ Hotel, with a loaded revolver. He flourished it around and above his head, boasting that as soon as he should get a sight of Frank Blair, he would shoot him. A gentleman who heard his braggadocio felt keenly solicitous for Mr. Blair’s safety. Just then he caught sight of him on Fourth Street, about a square and a half north of the hotel. Hastening to him, he reported what the hot Southerner had just said, and pointed out to him his would-be murderer. Mr. Blair was a tall, well-proportioned, vigorous man. He was among the bravest of the brave. He never feared the face of clay. That chilly morning he wore an overcoat with a cape. He at once threw the cape across his breast and over his shoulder, and, to the consternation of the friend, who had warned him of his imminent danger, walked directly to the hotel, before which, with loaded revolver in hand, stood the swaggerer, who, a few minutes before, had so loudly threatened to take his life. Mr. Blair went past him, came within six feet of him, looked him in the eye, but the poltroon did not shoot. He found it easier to boast than to act. The piercing glance of his enemy cooled his heated passion and made him a shivering coward. When Mr. Blair reached the street south of the hotel, he turned on his heel and walked back, and once more brushing by his cowed foe went on his way unhurt. But even in the fair sex, bitterness sometimes manifested itself with bloody intent. A lady who lived only a few rods from my door told me one day that she intended to shoot Frank Blair. Mr. Blair was intensely hated by Southerners for his pronounced free-soil views, and on account of the leading part he was taking in saving Missouri from the madness of secession. The more malignant disunionists determined if possible to put him out of the way. It was more than once whispered that in due time he would be assassinated. And here was a lady that was aspiring for the honor of shedding his blood. Just why she so frankly declared her intention to me, I could never understand. However, we were well acquainted with each other, and she, knowing how warmly I contended for the Union, evidently meant to annoy me by declaring her fell purpose. Nevertheless, I made light of it, and said to her, “I don’t think Mr. Blair will suffer much from you.” “Ah!” she replied, “I have a revolver, and I am practising with it every day in the back yard and have already become a good shot.” “Still,” I said, “I don’t think you will seriously injure him.” She responded, “You will see pretty soon.” And sure enough her opportunity for doing that meditated deed of blood soon came.