Moreover, in the congregation, and also in the membership of the church, was William M. McPherson. He came from the poor whites of Kentucky. What he was he owed largely to a godly mother. Amid great disadvantages he secured the rudiments of an English education. He then studied law at night, in his humble Kentucky home, by the light of flaming pine knots. He also taught a country school to put an honest penny into his empty purse. While yet in the beginning of his professional career as a lawyer, he came to St. Louis. He there at one time filled the office of United States attorney. Out of tender remembrance of his mother, and a sacred promise that he made her, he regularly attended church. He became a Christian. During my pastorate, out of choice he was an usher in the middle aisle, and none that received his attentions could ever forget the gracious kindliness of his manner. But back of his marked benevolence of spirit lay immense power of will. When he laid his hand to a work within or without the church, if human energy could accomplish it, it was quickly done. He was passionately devoted both to his city and his country. In the darkest days of the war, he was as true to the Old Flag as the needle to the pole. To preach to him and others of like spirit was an inspiration. In my church were seven deacons, all of them loyal to the Federal government. Of some of them we shall have occasion to speak in another connection. But one of them, Daniel J. Hancock, a Gibraltar of strength to his pastor, I refer to here, on account of an interesting incident in connection with the public mention of his name. General Hancock, who in the Civil War acquired a world-wide military fame, spent the winter of 1860–61 in St. Louis. His father, who was a deacon of a Baptist church in Pennsylvania, paid him a visit. One Sunday morning they both worshipped with us. Before the sermon a collection was to be taken for some special object. I said, “Will Deacon Pratt and Deacon Hancock pass the contribution boxes?” General Hancock’s father, not knowing that there was a Deacon Hancock in my church, was on his feet in a moment, ready to do the duty asked. The general, pulling his father’s coattail, said to him in a whisper, “There is a Deacon Hancock in this church.” Was not the general’s readiness for any duty on the battlefield in large measure an inheritance? As the winter wore away, and in turn spring and summer came, military officers in constantly increasing numbers appeared in the congregation. I very distinctly remember General Sumner. Every Sunday night for two or three months, he sat to my right near the pulpit. Being slightly deaf, he got as near as he could to the speaker. He was tall and graceful in form and movement, a man who would attract attention even in a crowd. He was afterwards conspicuous in the great battles of Fair Oaks, Antietam and Fredericksburg.