Belonging to the Presbyterian Church at the corner of Eighth and Locust Streets was a good deacon by the name of Tucker. He was editor of an evening paper. Believing with all his heart in the righteousness of secession, and wishing both in season and out of season, to strike telling blows against all advocates of Unionism, he came out in an editorial, one Saturday evening, in which he said: “The devil preaches at the corner of Sixth and Locust Streets, and he is just the same sort of a being that he was more than eighteen hundred years ago; he wants everybody to bow down and worship him.” Now since that was just where I preached, the editorial was rather personal, and was intended to be offensive. The deacon, fearing that I might miss reading his highly complimentary words, and so lack the stimulus that they might impart to my Sunday ministrations, early on the morning of the Lord’s day, sent a copy of his paper to me by special messenger, having thoughtfully marked his amiable editorial with his blue pencil. Instead of demanding satisfaction of the pious editor as almost any hot-blooded Southerner of that day would have done, the blue-penciled editorial was read at my breakfast-table amid roars of laughter. The good deacon a little while after left St. Louis, became a member of Claybourn F. Jackson’s political family, fled with the Governor and his staff to Arkansas and printed the proclamations of the discarded, peripatetic government of Missouri, as it wandered here and there in exile. About two years thereafter he died and, by the special permit of the general in command of the department of Missouri, was buried from the church where for many years he had filled the office of deacon. He was an honest, earnest soul, striving according to his light to do his duty. Moreover, it fell to my lot not only to be at times the subject of objurgation in secession newspapers, but the enemies of the Union also honored me by threatening to take my life. On a June morning of 1861, a gentleman accosted me at the Post-office, whither I had gone for my morning mail, and with pardonable inquisitiveness and much earnestness asked if I went out nights. I assured him that I did. He then urgently advised me not to do so, saying that he knew that a plot had been laid to kill me. I answered that I had very important duties as a Christian pastor, and when in order to perform them it was necessary for me to go out in the evening, I must go regardless of consequences to myself. Although a stranger to me, he declared himself to be a friend, and that he said what he did out of personal solicitude for me. He wished to know if I were not afraid. I assured him that I had not the slightest consciousness of fear; and that come life or death I proposed to stand at my post and do my duty. He went his way and I went mine. Soon it occurred to me that I did not ask his name, and who my solicitous friend was I never learned.