For the last hymn I gave out “My country, ’tis of thee.” I am quite sure that it had not been sung for many months in St. Louis; at all events, as a congregation, we had refrained from singing it lest somebody might be offended by it. My secession friends did not even deign to open their hymn-books, but stood dumb while we sang. But compensations for their silence had been providentially provided. A part of a congregation of loyal Methodists, passing our house of worship on the way home from their evening service, had crowded into the vestibule, and listened to the close of my discourse; lingering there, they sang the national hymn as only Methodists can. Also a band of loyal Unitarians going along Locust Street by the church just as we began to sing, stood on the sidewalk, under the open windows, and sang with fervor. Half a square away a gentleman, sitting in his parlor with its windows shut, heard our patriotic song and was glad. At the close of the service, a stranger unceremoniously approached me, and with some excitement of manner asked, “Do you expect to remain in the city?” I assured him that I did, but that it was a matter of indifference to me whether I did or not. Expressing the opinion that the people of the city would not permit me to remain, he disappeared in the departing crowd. Who he was, whence he came and whither he went, I knew not. From my own soul a burden had been lifted. As well as I could, I had spoken on behalf of our country. My mistake was that I had not spoken sooner. With a light heart I went back to my home and slept. I must now mention what was to me an exceedingly important event, to which on account of its sacredness I should make no allusion if it were not intertwined with an incident which sets in a startling light the determination of not a few in St. Louis at that time to suppress, even by brute force, freedom of speech. Two days after the delivery of my sermon on “The Duty of Obedience to Established Government,” profoundly believing in the Union, I was married. But our city was so agitated and divided, that it was deemed best both by my bride and myself to make but a short wedding trip. We thought that we should not be long absent from pressing duties at home. So we went no farther than Cincinnati. We left behind us a flagless city; but when we reached the great city on the Ohio, it was just one gorgeous bouquet of national banners. The exhilaration and ecstasy of that scene no words can express. The remembered experience, the patriotic exultation of that hour, lingers like undimmed sunshine in my soul.