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.