We remained in Cincinnati over the following Sunday. By a happy prearrangement, the young and eloquent Irish preacher of Quincy, Illinois, Rev. H. M. Gallaher, supplied my pulpit. As he began the evening service, a turbulent crowd gathered on Sixth and Locust Streets, in front and by the side of the church. They had evidently come together to mob me for my discourse the week before. When Mr. Gallaher was offering prayer before the sermon, some one of the crowd on Locust Street hurled a brickbat through the window, immediately to the left of the pulpit; the great window-pane was shivered in pieces, but the missile aimed at the preacher happily failed to reach its mark. It was caught by a Venetian blind and fell harmless to the floor. In spite of the sudden, unexpected crash, the plucky Irishman prayed on as though nothing had happened, and his cool persistence probably averted further disaster. My marriage had been a private one. Only a few intimate friends had witnessed it. Nobody had advertised it; so those intent on executing mob law upon me quite naturally supposed that I was in my pulpit. But, for some unknown reason, somebody in that vengeful throng began to suspect that their coveted game had slipped through their toils. While the fearless preacher in the pulpit continued to pray in apparent oblivion to splintering glass and a falling, resounding brickbat, two men from the mob without, pushing partly open one of the doors of the audience room, intently watched him. They evidently became satisfied before he closed his prayer that the object of their malice had in some way eluded them. They reported to the noisy, angry crowd in the street. The clamor gradually subsided. There followed for a few minutes a murmur of voices, then the disappointed multitude little by little melted away. This menacing event greatly disturbed the officers of my church. Knowing the train on which we were returning to St. Louis, several of them came to greet us and tell us of the mob. They feared that it might gather again to carry out its fell purpose, and anxiously asked what line of action would be wisest and best? In a moment I decided what I should do. I told them that those who did not hear my sermon, but had learned of it merely from flying rumor, had exaggerated and false notions concerning it; that they had unquestionably misconceived its spirit; that I would at once write it out, just as I had uttered it in the pulpit, and print it in _The Missouri Republican_; that that journal of doubtful loyalty gladly published articles on both sides of the national question, and was very generally read by the secessionists; and that when those who were bent on mobbing their fellow-citizens for their honestly expressed political views should read it, they would not fail to see that it was not quite as objectionable as they supposed, and would lay aside their vengeful purpose.