The Gates of Light: Chapter 1

 

CHAPTER 1

 

The Valley of Shadows

Christmas, 1860

 

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of

death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me . . . .”

Ps. 23:4

 

The farm was nestled in the valley of the Sandy River.  The river, clear and fresh, flowing from northwest to southeast, glistened as a moving gem in the Blue Mountains of southwestern Maine.

 

The farm was home to a close-knit family.  The father, John Prescott, and his wife, Rhoda Marrow Prescott, were the parents of ten children.  He had lived on the land as a youth.  He had joined with his parents and brothers and sisters in working the land.  Early in his life he was witness to the age-old cycle of seed-time and harvest-time.  He came to know that the land was a priceless heritage, to be cultivated with an infinite care, that it was, indeed, the bearer of life.  He had known the caress of the clear, cool waters of the river in which he swam at eventide, which washed away the fatigue of the day and brought the repose of the dreamless night.  He had roamed the tree-clad mountains that encircled land and river.  He was at home in the great forests, lifted in spirit as his eyes gazed upward to the green-clad crown of the majestic white pine.  In autumn-time he saw the brilliant colors of the turning leaves of spruce, oak, and maple‑-colors of flashing red and subdued yellow intermingled with the pastoral hue of green.  His every breath was the breath of wood-bearing scent.  He was a youth of earth, water, forest, and sky.  The elements of nature, pure and untrammeled, were the elements of his own being.  He continued, as a grown man, to abide on the land of his heritage.  His heritage was forever joined with his destiny.

 

When the halcyon days of his youth came to their bitter-sweet close, his mother placed his few clothes in a well-worn piece of borrowed luggage and bade him goodbye.  The next few years were spent as a student in a small theological college not too distant from his home.  He became a student of the classical languages, Latin and Greek, and learned a smattering of Hebrew.  He became acquainted with some of the great thinkers of theological thought‑-gustine, the Bishop of Hippo; Aquinas, the slow and methodical “ox;” Luther, the breaker of tradition; and Wesley, the proclaimer of single-willed devotion to God.  His summers were spent at home, reliving the earlier days of instinct now enriched with the added color of maturing intellect and thought.  Instinct and thought‑-these too joined in the fusion of heritage and destiny.

 

 

As the years came and went, he continued his education, now as a student of philosophy.  He had come to realize that many, if not all, of the great questions of theology were also philosophical questions.  Behind Augustine and Aquinas stood the monumental figures of Plato and Aristotle.  The modern figures of Kant and Hegel loomed large in the newer forms of religious thought.  With the completion of his formal studies, he became a professor of philosophy at a small college near his boyhood home.  His duties were but part-time, mainly conducting weekly seminars in topics of special interest to him.  He continued to live on the land and to manage the family farm.  Again his dual life of instinct and thought formed him as cultivator of soil and mind.

 

John Prescott was tall and slender.  His face was regularly and finely chiseled, statuesque as if it had come from the hand of a Leonardo.  His brow was wide, a sign of his high intelligence.  His eyes were blue, set deep under prominent eyebrows and seemed always to penetrate piercingly all that upon which he looked.  They radiated with the gleam of honesty and integrity.  His nose was rather thin, somewhat prominent at the bridge, approaching the Roman type.  His hair was brown, tinged with gray, full, and parted on the left side, with natural waves formed outward over each well-proportioned ear.  A short white, neatly trimmed beard, covered the lower part of his face and chin.

 

At the age of thirty-three, John Prescott married his boyhood friend and sweetheart, Rhoda Marrow.  She was of mid-size, full of figure, her waist small and trim.  Her face was proportioned with the finesse and elegance of the art of Praxitiles.  It was molded as if it were an oval gem.  Her eyebrows were engraved daintily to grace lovely eyes of azure.  Her nose was delicately and regularly set.  Her hair was auburn, waist-length and gathered in a bun resting gracefully on the nape of her slender neck.  Added to her physical beauty were the charms of character and intelligence.  She was responsive to the virtues of noble character and to the graces of religious feeling.  She was well-read, well-informed, poetical in her expression, and musically talented.

 

John and Rhoda Prescott were a devoted couple, delighted each with the other in the bond of sacred affection.  She thought of him as if it were he of whom the Psalmist wrote:

 

Blessed is the man

that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly,

nor standeth in the way of sinners,

nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.

But his delight is in the law of the Lord;

and in his law doth he meditate day and night.

He is like a tree

planted by the rivers of water,

that bringeth forth his fruit in his season;

his leaf also shall not wither;

and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.

For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous.

 

He, too, found in the poetry of Scripture a reference to his beloved.  Always he thought of her, in the words of Solomon’s Song:

 

Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold thou art fair;

thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks: thy hair is

as a flock of goats that appear from Mount Gilead.

Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn,

which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins,

 

and none is barren among them.

Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely:

thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks.

Thy neck is like the tower of David builded for an armoury,

whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, all shields of mighty men.

Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins,

which feed among the lilies.

Until the day break and the shadows flee away, I will get me

to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense

Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.

 

He loved her, not only for her physical beauty, but for the radiance of her mind and character.  He often spoke of her, again in the words of the Bible, to which both were devoted:

 

Strength and honour are her clothing;

and she shall rejoice in time to come.

She openeth her mouth with wisdom;

and in her tongue is the law of kindness.

She looketh well to the ways of her household,

and eateth not the bread of idleness.

Her children rise up and call her blessed;

her husband also, and he praiseth her.

Many daughters have done virtuously,

but thou excellest them all.

Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain:

but a woman that feareth the Lord,

she shall be praised.

Give her of the fruit of her hands;

and let her own works praise her in the gates.

 

Over the years ten children were born to this couple.  The children were evenly distributed, as if to respect the value of balance, as five sons and five daughters.  Horace, the eldest son, was born on May 11, 1825.  Two daughters came into the home: Jane, born July 1, 1826, and Hannah, born October 29, 1827.  The second son, George, was born just after Christmas of 1828, on December 27.  Lewis was born on June 25, 1831, and Asa, on January 18, 1833.  Then two daughters made their appearances: Marilla, on June 13, 1834, and Octavia on May 21, 1836.  Another son, William, was born a few days before Christmas of 1838, on the 5th of the month.  The last child, a daughter, Amanda, was born on February 8, 1841.

 

During these years, as the nineteenth century was swiftly moving to its mid-point, the days at the Prescott home were busy days, filled with work and play and laughter.  John Prescott was occupied with his teaching and writing, along with his task of managing the family farm.  As the boys grew, they pitched in and did their share of farming.  And Rhoda received help as the girls began to assume their duties in the home.

 

The home in which the family lived was a large three-story stone house.  It was the house in which John was born, in 1791, and had been built by his father, James Prescott.  It was situated some distance east of the river and faced to the west.  A lane of approximately one-half mile, bordered on each side by magnificent oak trees, led from the main east road to the house.  A

stone fence, somewhat over two feet high, surrounded the house.  At both the front and back of the house, there were openings in the fence for ingress and egress.  At intervals along the outside of the fence were various shrubs and bushes, some of the flowering type.  A large expanse of native grasses, mixed with clover, afforded a vista of green as the grounds sloped gently downwards

in the front and on both sides.  Some distance from the rear of the house, on

 

a gentle knoll, stood the various native trees of the region.  The front of the house was graced with a porch, supported by slender columns of stone, set

on pedestals and topped by decorative crowns, which ran along the entire front.  The roof of the porch was enclosed on each side and front by wrought-iron decorative latticework.  From a hall on the second-floor, a door led to the porch roof, which also served as a veranda.  A porch was attached to the back of the house.  The two ends were partially enclosed, the stone siding extending from the floor a distance of approximately four feet.  Lattice-work completed the enclosure.  An arbor of concord grapes draped the sides of the porch.  From an underground spring, a pipe, set at an angle, brought cool, fresh water continuously.  A tin cup hung from a post, always available to afford a satisfying drink.

 

The house was arranged and furnished in the manner of those times.  As one entered the front door, he or she walked through a small hallway, on the sides of which were coat-racks and other stands for hats, cloaks, and umbrellas.  These had been fashioned of oak and maple by James Prescott, the father and by now grandfather of the present occupants.  They were, even at this time, regarded as heirlooms.  On the left was the parlor, always kept in immaculate condition and reserved for formal occasions.  The wallpaper was of blue circular designs on a white background.  Paintings of persons and events having to do with the early history of the country were placed on the walls.  The floor was carpeted, as were other main rooms of the house.  The tall windows were framed by light blue floor-length drapes.  On the south wall was a fireplace.  The mantle was of marble and on it stood two wine-colored glass vases.  The andirons were bronze.  Several upholstered chairs, one a platform rocker, a divan, and a coffee table with a marble top, completed the furnishing of this room.  These were made of walnut.

 

 

The family sitting, or living, room was located on the right side of the front hall, directly across from the parlor.  On its walls was paper with rose-colored diamond-shaped designs on a white background.  The windows were framed with floor-length drapes to match the wallpaper.  A fireplace and fittings like those of the parlor stood at the north side of the room.  Oak

chairs and divan, with rose-colored upholstery, were placed in accessible positions throughout the room.  There was also a piano.

 

The dining room and kitchen comprised the two back rooms of the first floor.  The dining room, on the left, or north, side of the house, was reached from the hall through two swinging doors made of oak and extending from ceiling to floor.  The dining table, covered with white lace, and chairs were also made of oak.  By one wall stood a large oak hutch, while by another wall stood a small oak utility table, covered with lace, and upon which dishes were stacked.  Two of the walls were papered, while the remaining two walls were paneled with oak.

 

The kitchen was located just across the hall from the dining room.  As was the custom in those days, the kitchen was the center of family life and activity.  The life of the family centered around the hearth or cook stove.  The large cast-iron cook stove, its chimney extending upward and then out through the back wall, was fueled by wood, which was plentiful and cut and stacked in an adjoining woodshed during the late summer of each year.  There was sufficient space between the back of the stove and the rear wall of the room.  On this portion of the wall stood a mantle made of oak, on which were assorted pots and pans, along with utensils hanging from several hooks.  A kitchen clock was positioned on the right of the mantle.  Two oil lamps hung on the wall on each side of the stove.  There was a box between the stove and mantle.  It contained a tick filled with fresh straw.  It was a very special box, particularly to the children.  For it was the winter home of Rover, a lively tan and white springer spaniel pup.  The window on the south wall contained a pull-shade, over which hung a double lace curtain.  To its left stood a hutch, above which were shelves.  The kitchen was large enough to accommodate all the hungry harvest hands in the summer.  The large table was made of oak.  Two oil lamps stood on it.  At night the family gathered around the table to read by the lamplight and say evening prayers before bedtime.

 

The bedrooms were located on the second and third floors.  The parents’ room was located on the second floor, at the front of the house and on the south side, above the living room.  The wallpaper was pale green with decorative designs in a darker shade of green.  The fireplace, with its marble mantle, was located on the south side of the room.  The bedstead, made of maple, had four posts, decoratively turned on the lathe to create sections of spiraling vees.  Its headboard was elaborately carved in arabesque, while its footboard was designed more simply, the filigree work on the upper edge being American colonial.  The room also contained a chest of drawers, a vanity stand, a small reading table on which was placed the family Bible, and an oil lamp and two rocking chairs.  This furniture was likewise made of maple.

 

John Prescott’s library was located across the hall on the north side of the house.  Its fireplace was located on the north wall, again with a marble mantle.  A mantle clock, its case of walnut, stood in the center of the mantle.  Marble statues of classical mythical figures were placed at each end of the mantle.  The windows on the north and west walls were covered with heavy, light brown drapes, gathered near the floor by cords of like color.  A walnut desk and chair stood in the near center of the room.  There were two over-stuffed armchairs, placed diagonally near each side of the fireplace.  Walnut bookcases lined the remaining wall spaces, which were panelled walnut.  These shelves were filled with books on religion, history, and philosophy.  There was also a profusion of biographies, particularly of the earlier American patriots, some of whom were related to the Prescott family.

 

The two back bedrooms on the second floor, furnished somewhat more sparingly yet in good taste, were reserved for the girls in the family.  Four  rooms on the third floor were the sleeping quarters of the boys.  All of the rooms were heated by cast iron wood-burning stoves.  Each room contained two beds and chairs and a single night stand with an oil lamp.

 

There were several out-buildings on the farm.  The barn, regarded by the farmers of the day as even more important than the house in which the family dwelt, was located some distance southeast of the house near a bend in the river where it flowed in a more southerly direction.  The barn had, like the house, been constructed by James, the father of John Prescott.  John himself, with his brothers, had helped build it.  The framing timber had been cut in the hills on the northwest side of the river.  Two teams of horses were used to skid the large timbers down to the river’s edge, and then the timber was floated across and pulled by the teams to the site on which the barn was constructed.  Large bolts of white pine were cut, out of which shakes for the roof were made.  James taught his sons how to use the adze, and many delightful days the boys spent in forming the shakes and installing them on the roof, after the frame had been erected.  The barn faced south, and two large doors led into a wide corridor.  On the left were stalls for the milk cows.  On the right, running the length of the barn, were spaces for the horses and farm machinery.  The upper part was reserved for hay.

 

In addition to the barn, there were a cellar in which to store food, an icehouse, and a large woodshed, which consisted of poles to support a roof and sides but partially enclosing the structure.  Large amounts of wood for the stoves and fireplaces were cut and stored in this structure by the time fall arrived each year.  At the turn of spring, when the woodshed was relatively empty, the boys left their third-story bedrooms.  Bunks were quickly retrieved, reassembled, and ticks were filled with straw, loads of blankets and quilts thrown upon the ticks, and the boys were ready to spend their nights more nearly under the stars.  Rover, of course, was always delighted at this change of events and kept a fond and dutiful watch over his friends.  At the rear of the building, near the head of the boys’ bunks, grew vines of concord grapes, which, when the season arrived, furnished, with little effort, the necessary requisite for blissful sleep.

 

Over time, various groups of the children attended the one-room schoolhouse that served the families of the area.  Carrying their books and lunches, which Rhoda prepared for them, they walked together back and forth from school to home.  They poured over McGuffey’s texts, learning arithmetic, reading and spelling.  They liked the many illustrations, and early on absorbed the practical morality that the Readers taught.

 

Rhoda was an accomplished musician, proficient at both the piano and the violin.  She therefore saw to it that the children became lovers of music, and gave lessons to those children who showed sufficient interest and talent in music.  John, who loved classical literature, saw to it that the children knew something of Latin and Greek.  He often read passages of classical literature, particularly Homer and Aeschylus, to the children.  In the evenings, after the day’s work, and as the family lingered around the supper table, members of the family took turn in reading passages of Scripture, drinking in the ancient stories of devotion and loyalty to those things that are highest with which humankind has to do.  Thus the children grew into youth and young adulthood, surrounded with the high values of beauty and style and integrity.

 

 

For the male members of the family, the farm-work consisted of caring for the herd of milk cows, plowing and seeding the land, and then bringing in the harvests.  The hay was brought in by team and wagon and pitched into the hayloft.  Between each load there was time for some rest.  Rhoda and the girls brought containers filled with ginger ale, which helped to alleviate thirst.  Sometimes there was time enough for the boys to run to the river, pull off their trousers, and take a dip in the cool waters of the stream.  On one memorable day, it was later recalled, they observed this ritual fourteen times.  John remarked, it must be noted, that this was the time when there occurred the all-time record for the least amount of hay brought in per diem (he never forgot his Latin, even in haying time).  Potatoes were grown, and when dug, some were stored in the cellar for winter use, while some were taken to town by team and wagon and exchanged for other foodstuffs.  Some distance north of the house and lane was an orchard of fifty trees, consisting mainly of apples.  The fruit was harvested in season, some ate soon after picked, and the rest stored for further use.

 

Rhoda and the girls were kept busy with household activities.  There were meals to prepare, clothing to be made and mended, and the home made pleasant and comfortable.  While its circumstances were more than adequate, the family was nevertheless frugal.  Cloth goods whose original purposes had been fulfilled were turned into rag rugs of various sizes, shapes, and colors.  Rhoda and the girls spent many a long winter afternoon and evening fashioning rugs to be placed in the bedrooms.  They cut out quilt-blocks and sewed them together as covering for attractive quilts and comforters.  “Friendship quilts” and “wedding ring quilts” were among their favorite types of quilts.  When time permitted, the girls read, often the novels currently in vogue.

 

But there was other work for them to do.  In the upland slopes beyond the rear of the house, several varieties of berries grew profusely: blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, and gooseberries.  When these ripened, Rhoda and the girls would often rise early in the morning, while the dew upon the grass glistened as translucent gems, to pick berries.  These served to enhance the daily meals, although what was not eaten was turned into preserves, jams and jellies, to be brought out in the winter months.  There was also sweet corn to be gathered, and this task, too, was often undertaken by the womenfolk.  Rhoda was one of the first persons in the United States to experiment with, and accomplish, the new process of canning sweet corn.

 

The surrounding hills abounded in white-tailed deer.  Deer hunting was a yearly event in early fall for John and the boys.  Sometimes John and one or more of the boys would hitch a team to the wagon, place a carpeting of straw on the floor, and drive up into the mountains some distance from the farm.  More than once they came to a stream in which trout abounded.  Before crossing it, they paused long enough to catch fish for supper.  A suitable campsite was chosen, usually a small glen sheltered on all sides by trees and through which a small stream ran, taking its rise from a spring at the head of the glen.  Large branches of pine were cut to make mattresses, smaller branches thrown on to provide a cushion, blankets and quilts piled on to complete the beds.  Fresh venison provided meat for some time after each hunt, and the remaining meat was preserved for use later in the year.  The river and lakes yielded fish, another source of food.

 

 

There was one deer hunting trip of note, destined to become a family legend.  On this occasion John and Horace, at this time in his early teens, camped in the hills on a deer hunt.  John stationed Horace on a knoll overlooking an intersection of runways.  He, John, then went on a sashay to run the deer into the runways so that Horace might shoot it.  A considerable time elapsed and Horace became anxious, being left alone in the wilderness.  Suddenly he heard a noise directly behind him.  He was sitting with his gun across his knees.  He looked over his shoulder and saw that a large buck had appeared over the crest of the knoll, not over ten feet away from where he was sitting.  The deer stood transfixed, frozen, perplexed by the strange apparition that filled its view.  Now Horace was faced with a problem.  How was he to get up, turn around and prepare to shoot without scaring the game away?  He had once heard his father say that when a deer was running it could be stopped by making a sudden noise, as yelling “Baa.”  It then afforded a likely target.  Horace, thinking that, as Rhoda used to say, “an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,” acted on that bit of folksy wisdom.  He suddenly sprang up, turned around, and, looking the startled buck in the face, yelled “Baa.”  Never, in all the annals of wildlife, had a member of the tribe been faced with such a startling development.  The deer gave a violent jerk, quickly turned around and, with gargantuan leaps, later measured to be thirty feet in length, lit out as fast as he could.  He was successful in making his escape.  By this time John had come into the vicinity and witnessed the astounding event.  He tried, with absolutely no success, to get a shot near the deer as it hurtled precipitously downward.  At first, John was quite put out at the stupidity of his first born off-spring, but later, having a magnificent sense of humor, he realized that he was given a first-rate story with which to regale his neighbors and others of his friends.  So all was forgiven.

 

There was, however, one deer hunting trip that yielded positive, albeit unexpected, results.  It concerns the acquisition of Rover.  This time John and George were hunting closer to home, in a small valley made by one of the many streams that flowed into the Sandy River.  They came upon a man who lived alone in a little cabin, built upon stilts.  This person told George that there were some springer spaniel puppies under the cabin and, if he wanted, he could crawl under there and pick one out.  This he did and selected one of the puppies.  As he and father made their way home, George tucked the puppy in his shirt front to give the animal warmth.  After returning home, the little dog was brought into the kitchen, and Rhoda warmed a pan of milk on the cook stove to give the puppy his supper.  This new member of the family was given, by unanimous consent, the name “Rover.”  In the main, Rover had a happy life.  However, he had to pay some price for the privilege of assuming the surname of Prescott.

 

The ground in front of the house sloped gently to the river.  There was a short, winding trail that led to the water’s edge.  Here the boys built a dock out of small logs and planks.  It was a few feet in width and extended into the river a few feet.  It was used as a diving platform.  During the summers a bar of soap was kept on it, and the boys took their evening bath in the river before retiring at night.  On those occasions when they were properly clothed, or one should say clothed, the parents and girls often joined them for a swim.

 

The fourth son, Asa, became enamored with his hero, of whom he had read in school, John Paul Jones.  Nothing would do but that he must build a boat.  He worked up the plans for a scow, which at that time was about the limit of his expertise in ship construction.  He received, in due time, help from his brothers and father.  Planks were sawed and nailed together to form a flat-bottomed scow.  The fore and aft were sloped upward, so that it might, in some sense, be navigable.  Pegs were driven in the sides to serve as oarlocks, and oars were constructed.  John purchased some caulking and showed the boys how to melt tar and seal the bottom and sides after the caulking was driven into the seams.  Then came the time for the official christening of the vessel.  This was a family event, all hands participating in and witnessing the occasion.  The vessel was carried to the river, a bottle of concord grape juice broken against its bow, and the ship was given the name, in honor of Asa’s hero, the Bon Homme Richard.  Another remarkable event had occurred in American naval history.

 

Contrary to what might have been expected, the Bon Homme Richard was a sea-going craft.  Many voyages were taken up and down the river.  Everyone was happy with it‑-except Rover.  He had great difficulty with it.  Although they loved the dog, the boys were still boys and liked now and then to engage in mischief.  Poor Rover had to bear the brunt of their proclivity.  After supper and after the evening chores were done, the boys headed for the river to clean up and get ready for bed.  On some occasions, they tried to sneak to the river without Rover’s knowledge.  And they were often successful in this.  They ran swiftly to the river, jumped in the boat and hurriedly shoved off.  But by this time Rover knew what was up and came running lickety split to the river.  The boat was close enough from the dock for him to jump into it.  He gave a gigantic leap, thinking that he had in effect accomplished his intention, when a mighty pull on the oars thrust the boat toward the center of the river.  With his legs outspread, head up, tail flying, Rover bellied into the river to become thoroughly immersed.  He swam to the boat, put his front paws on its side, and was lifted in by helping hands.  But he had a way of exacting retribution.  He gave a mighty shake and thoroughly drenched the human occupants of the Bon Homme Richard.

 

Independence Day, the Fourth of July, was always a festive occasion.  John and the boys brought sawhorses and planks and made one or two large tables and placed them under the trees near the river.  Rhoda and the girls prepared a sumptuous meal, which, when cooked, was brought in containers and placed on the table.  Sometimes the family celebrated the day by themselves, while at other times friends and neighbors joined the festivities.  The boys were in charge of the annual watermelon patch, located near the river between the house and orchard.  They picked the finest melons late in the afternoon of the third of July and placed them in a spring, which flowed from the river’s bank, to cool.  The day was one of conversation and rest, with sufficient time for the young people to swim and boat in the river.

 

The inexorable law of ravishing time yields to no assuagement.  The century had passed its mid-point.  The life of the Prescott family proceeded apace, balanced in the precarious tension of stability and flux.  The family experienced its great sorrow, the untimely death of the lovely and delicate Jane at the age of seventeen.  After a short illness, she slipped quietly away with the family gathered around her.  Held in Rhoda’s arms, Jane, with her last breath, opened her eyes and gazed heavenward, as if she saw the angels coming to take her to her home immortal.

 

Horace was married to Eliza Wheeler and lived in Massachusetts.  Hannah was married and living in Massachusetts with her husband, Gilbert Kingsberry.  George and Lewis married local girls whom they had known since the days of childhood, Naomi Whitney and Eunice Norcross, respectively.  They continued to live in the area.  Asa married Eliza Hauthwat and lived in Massachusetts.  Marilla married her girlhood friend, Henry McKenney.  The other children, Octavia, William, and Amanda continued to live at home.

 

It was a few days before the Christmas of 1860.  The snow lay heavy on the land.  The boughs of the great evergreens were bent with their mantle of snow, protesting, yet rejoicing in the unblemished white that enriched their green.  The branches of oak and maple, naked in nature’s sleep, were silhouetted starkly against an awakening sky.  As was his custom, John rose early, and, with a mug of warm coffee cradled in both hands, watched the coming of dawn, first appearing bright and cold, then full of warmth, the sun hanging as a vast golden disk over the eastern tree-clad hills.  Rhoda soon joined him, and, hand in hand, they stood in wonderment of the age-old drama of heaven’s birth.  This day was the day of enactment of a yearly family ritual.  It was the day reserved for the in-bringing of the Christmas tree.

 

John and William were in the barn milking the cows.  Rover the Younger, never to be denied, had arrived earlier.  The younger Rover had come upon the scene a few years before in a manner, insofar as his acquisition by the Prescott family is concerned, more in line with the natural order of genetic process than that which pertained to the acquisition of his progenitor.  Most members of the family employed language in the vernacular and simply called him “Rover the Younger”, or very often “Young Rover,” and, as time passed, simply as “Rover.”   These were not, however, his real name.  His real name was given to him by John.  With the authority of the head of the house, John had officially designated him as “Rover Redux.”  This state of affairs, of course, brought some semantic confusion to the dog, although, even without understanding the philosophical nature of the problem, he nevertheless managed quite well to sustain his psychological integrity.  Now this Rover had stationed himself by his favorite cow, awaiting his twice-daily treat.  He was sitting on his haunches, his mouth open, his tongue out and dripping with expectation.  All that remained was for William, as had the other boys in years gone by, to send a squirt of warm milk in the appropriate direction, and Rover would be happy until milking time at evening.  But, again, like his predecessor, Rover had to put up with some further discomfort.  For an intentional misdirection of aim can effectively cover a portion of a canine’s face with a certain kind of mascara.

 

Rhoda and the girls were preparing breakfast.  It must be a hearty breakfast, for the day promised to be strenuous.  After the morning chores were finished, and with breakfast on the table, the family gathered around.  As was the custom, they joined hands and John said grace.  And for this breakfast, the saying of grace was, without question, appropriate.  In order to make sure that sufficient sustenance was afforded for the day’s activities, the womenfolk had prepared hot cakes with hot maple syrup, bacon and eggs, fried potatoes, and, just to make more certain, ham and steak.  All this was complemented with jams and jellies, and toast and coffee.

 

After the breakfast was finished, and while Rhoda and the girls were washing the dishes and getting warm garments laid out for the enterprise, John and William went out to the barn.

 

“We’ll take the Bays this time, I think,” said John to William.  “They need to get out and get some hearty exercise.”

 

“That’s a good idea,” replied William, “they’ve been a bit feisty and cantankerous lately, and this ought to settle them down.”

 

“You might as well harness them now and bring them to the sled, and I’ll get the sled ready,” said John.

 

Both of these tasks were soon accomplished.  John put straw in the bottom of the sled, got the heavy quilts out and piled them in so as to provide some extra warmth.  He then went back to the house and returned with some warm bricks wrapped in cloth, to be laid at the feet of the passengers.  William brought the horses out, the breath from their nostrils steaming in the cold, crisp air, and hitched them to the sled.  Everybody then piled in, wrapped themselves in blankets and toasted their feet by the warm bricks.

 

 

William, with Octavia beside him, drove the sled, its runners crunching in the firm snow, out the lane toward the hills looming in the east.  The giant oaks that lined both sides of the lane, their branches gently swaying in the morning air, seemed to nod their approval.  Amanda sat by herself, musing, thinking of the glad family reunion soon to come.  Rover, solicitous about her welfare, soon went to her and lay down at her feet, looking up in anticipation of kind words and gentle caress.  John and Rhoda were in the back of the sled, happy to have nothing to do but look at the scenery unfolding before their gaze as the sled moved swiftly along.

 

William drove up into the base of the hills, where smaller pines were interspersed with the older, towering giants.  He brought the team to a halt, and everybody piled out.  The sled had stopped on a rise of land, from which extended gently upward two diverging dells.

 

“William, why don’t you and your sisters go up the left dell and your mother and I will take the right one?  We’ll keep a lookout for a fine, symmetrical pine about eight feet tall, filled out fully.  Whoever finds one can signal the find to the others of us.  If neither party finds what we want, we can meet under that large pine over yonder,” said John, pointing to the tree.

 

This being agreeable to all, the two parties began walking up the glens, keeping sharp eyes peeled for the desired tree.  The only exception was Rover, who had lit out after a rabbit that he had spotted.  He soon returned, dejected, letting William and the girls know that the rabbit had outwitted him.

 

“So, he out-foxed you, didn’t he, Rover,” William said.

 

“You mean, out-rabbitted,” Octavia replied, always ready to jump at a technicality.

 

From then on Rover was more cooperative in the search being undertaken by the human members of the party.

 

It wasn’t long until William gave a robust shout, and, in his stentorian voice, told, not only John and Rhoda, but anyone who might be within a mile of him, that he had found the perfect tree.  And sure enough, it was just that.  John and Rhoda came over, and, upon seeing the tree, gave their hearty approval.

 

“Well, William,” you’ve got a knack for this sort of thing,” said Rhoda, giving him a motherly hug.

 

William went back for the team and sled, and drove to a level place in the vicinity of the tree.  With saw and axe, the tree was soon cut and carefully placed in the sled.  When everybody was in, the sled moved on its way home.

 

It was mid-afternoon when the foresters turned into the lane leading to the farm.  The horses, now realizing that a good meal of oats awaited them, picked up speed, causing the bells on the harness to ring merrily, as if in anticipation of the fast-approaching yuletide.  William pulled up rapidly in front of the house, turning team and sled sideways so that a great spray of snow was thrown high into the air, braked the sled and pulled back on the lines, with a boisterous “Whoa, Whoa.”  Everybody laughed at all this unnecessary to-do, just thankful that he or she had not been catapulted into the front yard.  Rhoda and the girls went inside, shed their wraps, and made some hot coffee.  William and John got out and brought the tree into the front hall and then drove the team and sled to the barn.  After putting it in its place and taking care of the horses, they returned to the warmth of the hearth.  The coffee was hot and ready for them.  It was not necessary to eat, since breakfast, early as it had been, was still with them.

 

Over the years, it had been the custom to place the tree in the parlor.  Although the parlor was reserved for formal occasions, there was no greater occasion, Rhoda had always insisted, than the celebration of our Lord.  So the Christmas tree stood always in the near-sacred room.  The piano was moved from the living room to the parlor, to be available as accompaniment to the string ensemble that sounded forth the glad sounds of Christmas song.  After the tree had been fixed in its stand, water poured in the basin to keep it fresh, the ladies spent the evening decorating it.  Candles were placed judicially over its up-lifted boughs that seemed glad to receive the light symbolizing the “light of the world.”  Tinsel, intertwined with strings of popcorn and cranberries, was also placed on the tree.  At the top a great star was placed. After all was finished, the men came in and watched as the candles were lit.  The twilight of evening, the glow of candles, the flickering light of the oil lamps‑-all these became as the luminous cloud of that long-ago time in which abode God’s gracious presence.  There was the sense of an holy peace, as the family stood together, hands joined and heads bowed, in reverence and awe.

 

It was Friday, December 21, 1860.  Over night a blanket of new snow, four inches or so, had silently fallen on land and forest.  No line, or mark, or blemish, defaced the fine white powder that tossed gently to and fro as the faint morning breeze kissed its surface.  The branches of the trees, both those clothed in their lasting green and those in their stark undress, flashed forth their translucent covering of frost.  Bough and frost were accentuated against their backdrop of a cloudless morning sky of intense blue.  A soundless tranquility rested upon the land.

 

This day was the long-awaited day when the Prescott family would be reunited in the communion of the joy of the Savior’s birth.  The family had risen early, had finished the morning chores, and had partaken of a bountiful breakfast.  The team of horses was harnessed and hitched to the large, red sleigh.  William, as was his custom, was on the driver’s seat, reins in hand, waiting for the remaining members of the family to climb on board.  The little heater at the front of the sleigh, its box filled with live coals, gave forth its warmth, and blankets were at hand to be thrown over the laps of the passengers.  John and Rhoda, then Octavia and Amanda, accompanied by the ever-faithful Rover, came from the house and got in the sleigh.  With a gentle flick of the reins, the team started and drew the sleigh through the familiar lane and on to the main road.  In a few minutes George and his bride of a few months, Naomi, overtook them in their sleigh.  Lewis and Eunice, likewise in their sleigh, soon joined the others.  Some minutes later, Marilla and her husband, Henry, overtook the group in their sleigh.  By now it was a small procession.  All were headed to the railroad station to meet the train from Boston and Portland, to greet their loved ones who by now were living in distant places.  Besides the joy of greeting loved ones, the additional transportation was judged to be necessary in order to bring everybody home to the farm.

 

The four sleighs and their occupants were beside the tracks at the little station.  It wasn’t long until the low, mournful sound of the whistle was heard in the distance to the southeast, announcing the train’s imminent arrival.  All eyes were upon the horizon and soon a spiral of smoke became visible, moving ever closer, as the train itself came into view.  It gradually reduced its speed, finally screeched to a stop, a heave of steam issuing from its drive machinery.  Horace and Eliza, Hannah and her husband, Gilbert, and finally Asa and Eliza and Marilla and Henry, trooped out on the platform and down its stairs into the arms of the waiting welcomers.

 

 

Horace and Eliza got into the sleigh driven by William, so as to ride home with John and Rhoda.  Octavia and Rover were reallocated to George’s sleigh.  The readjustments being accomplished, the four teams trotted out toward home.

 

John and Horace sat side by side, and Rhoda and Eliza found places on another bench and conversed with each other as the homeward journey progressed.

 

“Horace,” remarked John, noticing his son’s evident despondency, “you seem remarkably quiet this morning of holiday gaiety.  Something has disturbed you.  What is it?”

 

Horace reached into his overcoat pocket and brought out the morning edition of a Boston paper, dated the previous day, December 20, 1860, and showed his father its headlines.  They read, in large, bold type, “SOUTH CAROLINA SECEDES.”

 

“It has begun,” John said.  “The Union is breaking apart.”

 

As he so often did, he voiced his distress in poetic expression.  “The Nation has met its Götterdämmerung.  Its gods, they who rule its destiny, have walked into the twilight of night.”

 

“Yes, Father,” Horace sighed, “I fear it is so.

 

The afternoons and evenings of the next few days witnessed the daily gathering of the family around the familiar hearth of the old home.  There was not much work that had to be done, beyond the care of the farm animals.  Each day, around mid-afternoon, the other married children and their spouses flocked in from nearby, as birds returning to their nests, to spend precious hours together until the shades of night called them back to their own homes.  Those who had come from a distance became, again, permanent residents at the spacious house, so filled with presences and memories of former years.  Often, the family gathered in the parlor, where the cheery flame in the fireplace lent brilliance to the soft glow of candles and lamps.  Rover, too, never allowed himself to be excluded from the circle.  For he was at peace, and liked nothing better than to sit near one or another of his friends and place his paw on a lap or knee.  At other times the walls rang with the sound of music‑-the sound of piano, strings, and voice.  But much of the time was spent discussing the momentous events that were overtaking the nation and hurtling it to catastrophe.

 

The following Sunday, two days before Christmas, was a joyous occasion for the entire family.  They had attended morning services at their place of worship and had taken dinner together at the home place.  The ladies, hosts and guests both, had prepared a bountiful dinner.  Rhoda managed the affair, since she knew, remembering from the past, the favorite dishes of her husband and children.  The younger ladies did most of the actual work.  The dinner consisted of roast beef, carrots, parsnips, mashed potatoes and gravy, and hot rolls and jams and jellies, topped off with blackberry pie and coffee.  It was, by and large, the traditional Sunday dinner for the family.

 

 

After the table was cleared, dishes washed and put away, the members of the family lingered around the dining table.  On this afternoon, there began a series of discussions about national events that was destined to linger forever in the minds of these Americans.  All were present, since it had long been the custom of the Prescott family to bring everyone, women included, into the affairs of the family.  Never, over the long years, had the men left the women alone, to go off by themselves in some secluded place to smoke cigars and drink brandy.  Indeed, with respect to the place of women, the family was far ahead of its time.

 

On this particular afternoon, John began the discussion by mentioning, what, of course, everyone knew, Senator Hannibal Hamlin’s visit, some months earlier in the year, with John and Rhoda and the children who lived at home. John and Hannibal had been college classmates, in fact roommates, during their college years.  They remained fast friends, and very often Senator Hamlin would get away from his hectic days at Washington, where the slavery and secessionist questions filled the atmosphere with rancor, to find some time for quiet reflection and discussion with his dear friend.  It was a late winter evening in February.

 

“You know, John,” Hannibal began, “Lincoln is scheduled to give an address later this month in the Cooper Institute in New York.  I’m going to attend; I would like you to go with me.  You can meet me in New York and we can attend the lecture together.  I’m thinking that this address could very well portend something of importance to the country.  My judgment is that Lincoln is a man very well worth watching.  Do you think that you can do this?”

 

Rhoda made the decision.  “Of course, John, you can get away from the farm at this time of the year, and you must go.”

 

“Well, I see no reason, then, why I can’t accompany you.  In fact, as you’ve just heard, there appears to be every reason why I must go.”

 

This remark brought on some good-natured laughter.  Even Rover, who had been dozing by the fireplace, picked up his ears.

 

“Tell us about Lincoln.  Tell us why you think he’s someone to keep an eye peeled out for.  Have you ever met him?,” Octavia asked.

 

“Yes,” replied Hannibal, “I’ve met him and have had some discussions with him, years ago when he was in the House of Representatives.  But I don’t know him well.  I have, however, watched his political activities in the northwest, in Illinois.”

 

“We’ve all read,” William put in, “many of his speeches that he gave in his debates with Douglas, as well as some of his later speeches in Ohio.”

 

“Yes, they’re beginning to attract the attention of the nation at large.  In fact, as you well know, the South is beginning to get worried; they’re becoming afraid of what he might do, should he gain national office, about what they call their “‘peculiar institution.'”

 

“I can’t understand this,” said Amanda, entering the discussion for the first time, “it’s clear that he’s no threat to the South as far as slavery is concerned.  He’s against slavery, but he knows that the South has a constitutional right to own slaves.  What he’s against is the spread of slavery in the territories and new states.”

 

“I think it’s a downright shame and disgrace that the Constitution, which is supposed‑-here, I’ll read it‑-to ‘secure the blessings of liberty’ should also in any sense condone human bondage,” said Rhoda.  “I know that there are people who say that Negroes are inferior, even less than human, and should not be included in its provisions, but that’s a lot of nonsense; it’s evil and we all know it.”

 

“There are many of us in the North,” Hannibal said in reply to Rhoda’s salvo, “who agree with you.  As you well know, there were those among our founders, even those from the South, who deplored slavery, but accepted it as the price of Federal union.  I often think of Jefferson’s prophetic words, ‘Indeed, I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just: that his justice cannot sleep forever.'”

 

“Well,” remarked John, “the country’s certainly in a bind.  If slavery is wrong‑-and I believe and know that it is‑-and must be kept out of the territories and the new states, all the while constitutionally protected in the South, tell me, Hannibal, just how is the country going to get out of that predicament?  You talk about a contradiction, that’s a worse kind of contradiction than we ever had to confront in our logic classes, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“I’m afraid that it is, and I’m afraid that we’re leaving not only logic, but common sense, behind us.  Now-a-days there are people about the country who are beginning to say that the Declaration of Independence did not include the Negroes in the term ‘all men.’  This seems unbelievable, but I heard with my own ears Pettit, of Indiana, declare on the floor of the United States Senate that it was untrue that the Declaration, with its provision of freedom for all men, was meant to include the Negro, that in this respect it was not ‘a self-evident truth,’ but rather ‘a self-evident lie.’  These people are deliberately falsifying history to justify their own interest in extending slavery.”

 

“We have,” Octavia interjected, “a copy of Mr. Lincoln’s speech at Lewiston, Illinois, which he gave in August of ’58.  I was so impressed when I first read it.  I know that some people call him a ‘buffoon,’ but I have never read anything more eloquent, more beautiful, or more laden with passion.  It seemed to me that we were an ancient Athens and that Pericles had returned to remind us of the truths of nationhood.”  With that, she took control of things and, returning from the bookcase where Lincoln’s speech had been placed, read to her audience the closing words of his sublime theme:

 

 

The Declaration of Independence was formed by the representatives of American liberty from thirteen States of the Confederacy, twelve of which were slave-holding communities.  We need not discuss the way or the reason of their becoming slave-holding communities.  It is sufficient for our purpose that all of them greatly deplored the evil and that they placed a provision in the Constitution which they supposed would gradually remove the disease by cutting off its source. . . .  Now if slavery had been a good thing, would the fathers of the republic have taken a step calculated to diminish its beneficent influence among themselves, and snatch the boon wholly from posterity?  These communities, by their representatives in old Independence Hall, said to the whole world of men: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”  This was their majestic interpretation of the economy of the Universe.  This was their lofty, and wise, and noble understanding of the justice of the Creator to his creatures.  Yes, gentlemen, to all his creatures, to the whole great family of man.  In their enlightened belief, nothing stamped with the divine image and likeness was sent into the world to be trodden on and degraded, and imbruted by its fellows.  They grasped not only the whole race of man then living, but they reached forward and seized upon the farthest posterity.  They erected a beacon to guide their children, and their children’s children, and the countless myriads who should inhabit the earth in other ages.  Wise statesmen that they were, they knew the tendency of posterity to breed tyrants, and so they established these great self-evident truths, that when in the distant future some man, some faction, some interest, should set up the doctrine that none but rich men, or none but white men, or none but Anglo-Saxon white men, were entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, their posterity might look up again to the Declaration of Independence and take courage to renew the battle which their fathers began, so that truth and justice and mercy and all the humane and Christian virtues might not be extinguished from the land; so that no man would hereafter dare to limit and circumscribe the great principles on which the temple of liberty was being built.

 

Now, my countrymen, if you have been taught doctrines conflicting with the great landmark of the Declaration of Independence; if you have listened to suggestions which would take away from its grandeur and mutilate the fair symmetry of its proportions; if you have been inclined to believe that not all men are created equal in these inalienable rights enumerated by our chart of liberty, let me entreat you to come back.  Return to the fountain whose waters spring close by the blood of the revolution.  Think nothing of me‑-take no thought of the political fate of any man whomsoever‑-but come back to the truths that are in the Declaration of Independence.  You may do anything with me you choose, if you will but heed these sacred principles.  You may not only defeat me for the Senate, but you may take me and put me to death.  While pretending no indifference to earthly honors, I do claim to be actuated in this contest by something higher than anxiety for office.  I charge you to drop every paltry and insignificant thought of any man’s success.  It is nothing; I am nothing; Judge Douglas is nothing.  But do not destroy that immortal emblem of Humanity‑-the Declaration of American Independence.

 

A sublime hush settled upon the little group, not only because of Lincoln’s words, but because of the music of the lovely voice of the reader.  For a few moments no one stirred, absorbed in the magic of truth, merely catching with eye the gloaming of evening light as it filtered through the panes of glass, almost vanishing, yet breaking forth into the glory of its multicolored hues.

 

“Yes, this is so true,” said Rhoda, breaking the spell.  “The fathers of the Constitution did hope, and even believed, that slavery, although tolerated for a time, would eventually die out.  And it is true that the Constitution prohibits the slave trade.  It does, indeed, have a conscience.  But I also know that it supports slavery in its provision that escaped ‘persons,’ when captured, shall be returned to their owners.  I revere the Constitution, but I’ve never been able to reconcile this part of it with its ultimate intent or the intent of the Declaration.  I think that what incenses me most is not this tragic, yet seemingly unavoidable, compromise that the Continental Congress made, but the present employment of the Constitution, for example, Chief Justice Taney’s in the Dred Scott decision.  I was enraged, as I’ve never been before, when I read his decision in which he stated that the Declaration and the Constitution do not refer to Negroes otherwise than as property and that they are therefore not included in the provisions of these documents.  That is my real quarrel: that people in high governmental places are using the Declaration and the Constitution to support the evil of human slavery.  If all men, men of all race and condition, are entitled to liberty, how can the Negro be regarded as but property to be protected by the Constitution in the interest of those who enslave him?  That is my real quarrel.”

 

“Somehow, I’m more impressed with your smaller ammunition, Rhoda.  You’re on target and your aim is better,” said John, with a mischievous wink of his eye.  If one were to look closely, one would see a pretty tongue slightly out of its normal position.

 

“We do,” John continued, “have a contradiction lurking in our national heritage.  So we are back to our earlier question, ‘How is this to be resolved?'”

 

“Many people,” Amanda said, “believe that the North and South should separate, each section of the country becoming a separate nation and going its own way unmolested by the other.”

 

“Lincoln is clear as to that, too,” Hannibal replied.  “He knows that this is no solution.  A husband and wife may divorce and live far apart from each other.  But the North and South cannot live apart; there can be no impassible wall separating the two sections of the country.”

 

“Does Lincoln see any amicable resolution of the quarrel between the North and the South?” William asked.

 

“I don’t think that he does,” Hannibal replied.  “At least not on any terms that the South would find acceptable.  The South, as well as some northern politicians, as Douglas, argue for the doctrine of ‘popular sover­eignty,’ the doctrine that the people of the territories and the new states have the right to decide whether or not they shall be slave or free, and that the Federal Government has no right to decide the question by prohibiting the extension of slavery.  He knows that this kind of compromise, like others in the past, cannot heal the breach between the two sections of the country.  The recent warfare in Kansas is a testimonial to the futility of this approach.

 

“He knows,” Hannibal went on to say, “that the nation cannot survive on two principles: the principle of freedom and the principle of slavery, the principle of right and the principle of wrong.  Lincoln’s address, on June 16, 1858, at the Republican convention in Springfield, Illinois, should, in my view, be carefully read and reflected upon.  It may very well be a political prophecy of great historical events soon to come, of a terrible fury soon to overwhelm us.  He said”:

 

If we could first know where we are and whither we are tending, we could better judge what to do and how to do it.  We are now far into the fifth year since a policy was initiated, with the avowed object and confident promise of putting an end to the slavery agitation.  Under the operation of that policy, that agitation has not only not ceased, but has constantly augmented.  In my opinion it will not cease until a crisis shall have been reached and passed.  “A house divided against itself cannot stand.”  I believe this Government cannot endure permanently, half slave and half free.  I do not expect the Union to be dissolved‑-I do not expect this house to fall‑-but I do expect it will cease to be divided.  It will become all one thing or all the other.  Either the opponents of slavery will arrest the further spread of it, and place it where the public mind shall rest in the belief that it is in course of ultimate extinction; or its advocates will push it forward till it shall become alike lawful in all the States, old as well as new, North as well as South.

 

“It will not cease until a crisis shall have been reached and passed.”  Hamlin, at the moment lost in musing and thought, as if he were alone, softly breathed this portentous line.  For several minutes, no one spoke.  A new realization was coming to its dawn in the consciousness of the little assembly of loved ones and friend.  From one of them, there was heard a soft sigh of sadness, and then, this spell too was broken.

 

 

“How I wish I had been there, to have heard all of this and to have talked with Senator Hamlin,” Asa said.  “How fortunate you others were to have been part of such a remarkable conversation.”

 

“Well, I did go to New York,” John said.  “Hannibal met me at the station and we went to the Cooper Institute.  It was the evening of February 27.  The house was full, and I might add full of Eastern intellectuals, who had heard of the backwoodsman from the new West and were anxious to see just what kind of person he was.  I read in the Tribune the following morning, that ‘since the days of Clay and Webster no man has spoken to a larger assembly of the intellect and mental culture of our city.’  The great ones of the earth were all there.  William Cullen Bryant presided over the meeting.  Then Lincoln came on the stage.  I saw him for the first time.  There was nothing of what people call ‘greatness’ about him.  He was tall and extremely thin and angular; his arms were long, his wrists large and bony, and his fingers long with large, prominent knuckles.  His face wore a mein of profound sadness and melancholy, both of which seemed to heighten its homeliness.  He was dressed very plainly.  As he began to speak, his voice rose high and thin, even somewhat nasal.  He was not the kind of person New Yorkers usually come out to hear.  There was an agitated stirring sensed throughout the audience.  But, then as he went on to speak, the people became quiet, even deathly quiet, for they soon realized that they were hearing something they had never before heard, and from someone who was more than a country ‘rail-splitter,’ that here was a profound thinker whose logic was flawless and yet inflamed with a passion for truth and right and justice.

 

“Lincoln took as his text a phrase that Douglas had used in an Ohio speech: ‘Our fathers, when they framed the government under which we live, understood this question just as well, and even better than we do now.’  The ‘question’ was whether or not the Constitution prohibits the Federal Government to control slavery in the territories.  Douglas had argued that it did.  I listened with fascination, as did everyone present, as Lincoln demonstrated, with the precision of his fine legal mind, that in case after case the framers of the Constitution voted in the various Congresses both preceding and following the adoption of the Constitution for Federal control of slavery in the Territories.  He made his point clearly: that the Constitution did not rule out Federal involvement in the slavery issue.”

 

“This means, then,” Lewis replied, “that the slave question is not one to be reserved exclusively to the territories or the states, but that the Federal Government has an over-riding authority over the question, that the last word is not ‘popular sovereignty.’  This does, then, bring the issue of Federal and State Rights to a head.”

 

“Yes, that is it,” replied John.

 

“In the closing parts of his address, Lincoln took up the subject of the South’s attitude toward the North.  He drew the line, as forcefully as it has ever been drawn, and showed clearly that the only thing that would satisfy the South was the unbridled extension of slavery throughout the entire nation.  Then the house exploded with applause.  The people knew that here was someone who dared to face the truth of things.  He closed his address with an admonition to the North and to the Republican party.  The people who were listening knew that now he had every right to define the national and party policies.  It was as if we were at that moment witnessing the birth of a great national leader.  His closing words rang out, a clear clarion call”:

 

 

Wrong as we think slavery is, we can yet afford to let it alone where it is, because that much is due to the necessity arising from its actual presence in the nation; but can we, while our votes will prevent it, allow it to spread into the national Territories, and to overrun us here in the free States?  If our sense of duty forbids this, then let us stand by our duty, fearlessly and effectively.  Let us be diverted by none of those sophistical contrivances wherewith we are so industriously plied and belabored, contrivances such as groping for some middle ground between the right and the wrong, vain as the search for a man who should be neither a living man nor a dead man, such as a policy of “don’t care,” on a question about which all true men do care, such as Union appeals beseeching true Union men to yield to Disunionists; reversing the divine rule, and calling, not the sinners, but the righteous to repentance; such as invocations to Washington, imploring men to unsay what Washington said, and undo what Washington did.

Neither let us be slandered from our duty by false accusations against us, nor frightened from it by menaces of destruction to the Government nor of dungeons to ourselves.  Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith, let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it.

 

“There was an outburst of applause, the people smiled with delight and even broke out in the gladness of spontaneous laughter.  As Hannibal and I were leaving the hall, he turned to me and, in a tone of awe, said, ‘John, tonight we’ve heard the next President of the United States.'”

 

The following day, Monday, was Christmas Eve.  The children and their spouses, those living in the vicinity, arrived at the Prescott home in the early afternoon.  They brought with them some extra bedding, since it was their intention to spend the next two nights at the old home.  The necessary arrangements for their absence from their homes and farms had been satisfactorily executed.

 

It was well that these plans and preparations had been made.  In the late afternoon and early evening hours the weather began to change drastically.  The sky turned a somber, ever-deepening grey, great clouds amassing bank upon bank.  A fierce, cold gale from the Hudson Bay sent frigid blasts over land and through forest.  The great trees bent and bowed in deference to the rage of the elements.  It then began to snow heavily.  As a vast, sinuous substance, the snow fell upon the land, layer upon layer shaped to its contour, only to be tossed and hurled into gigantic drifts by the fierce winds.  The Furies had been let loose.  It was as if nature herself were exacting judgment for the folly in which American humanity was now immersing itself.

 

“Regardless of the weather,” John said to his sons, “we must milk the cows and feed the stock.”

 

He procured a long rope and fastened one end to one of the posts that supported the back porch.  He and the boys then took lanterns and, with heads down and faces covered, made their way to the barn, tying the other end of the rope to the barn door.  As he was wont, and despite a great deal of suggestion and advice to the contrary, Rover went along.  He, too, knew something about the meaning of familial tradition and quickly found the appropriate place from which to receive his customary appetizer before supper.  The boys, now grown men, were immediately returned to their boyhood, and could not refrain from uproarious laughter.

 

“Now, boys,” John admonished‑-knowing full well that he would be ignored‑-“it’s Christmas and let’s not make life miserable for our Rover Redux, so watch your aim.”  This bit of parental instruction, all-too-reminiscent of former years, brought another round of good-natured laughter.

 

The smell of clean, fresh hay; the heat of animal bodies warming the close-pressed faces of the milkers; the dim flickering of the lanterns sending forth paths of light in the surrounding darkness‑-all this contrasted with the raging storm outside, rebutted as it was by the strong timbers of the old structure, brought a sense of abiding peace to the hearts of the men.  Here, in this great barn, standing amidst the great storm hurled against it, the men found a strong and secure refuge, and learned anew that there are, notwithstanding the works of destruction, works of mind and heart that bring enduring benefit.

 

The milking finished and the stock secured for the night, the men made their way to the house.  So severe was the storm that it was necessary to hold on to the rope, lest they lose their way in the intense darkness.  A bountiful and hot supper was waiting for them.  The family ate at the large kitchen table, the table around which the family had held many a session of deliberation and conversation over the by-gone years.  The kitchen was warm and cozy, the fire in the great range sending its warmth throughout the room.  The candles on the table, the lamps on the wall, gave their soft light and added to the mystic charm of the room.  After supper the men lingered at the table, while the ladies washed and dried the dishes and put the cooking utensils in their accustomed places.  The ladies returned to their places at the table.  Serenity and peace reigned, despite the turbulence of nature and the rending of the larger society.

 

Abraham Lincoln was elected to the Presidency on November 6, 1860.  Immediate steps were taken by the South to instigate a rebellion.  The strategies and tactics employed by the conspirators were never fully brought to light.  In addition to southern conspirators, there were conspirators active at the very center of the Government in Washington.  This was not known, to be sure, by the majority of citizens throughout the nation.  John Prescott was one of the few persons outside Washington who did, however, know about this.  In November he had received a lengthy letter from Hamlin apprizing him of developments, both in the South and in the Capitol.

 

“I want to read a letter that I received last month from Hannibal,” John said to the circle sitting around the kitchen table.  “But you must keep the contents of his letter confidential; it would not be well if they were disseminated at large.  The times are serious, and we mustn’t do anything to feed the flames raging across the land.  But I think you should know what is going on in the country and what the likely results will be.”

 

He went into his study and retrieved the letter.  It read:

 

Friday, November 30, 1860

Bangor, Maine

 

My Old and Dear Friend:

 

My heart is heavy tonight, and since we cannot converse with each other face to face‑-how I wish we could‑-I must write you and Rhoda.  If you wish, you may show this letter to the children, but its contents should spread no further.  Very few people in the country know about the fearful and portentous developments, both in the South and here, that threaten the very existence of the Nation.  I must write you about them, to find some relief from the anxiety that now overwhelms me.  That I am to serve as Vice President is of little comfort, given the turbulence of the times.

 

A group of private citizens in Charleston, South Carolina, has formed an association called “The 1860 Association.”  I have obtained a copy of this document.  Its avowed purpose is to prepare the slave states “to meet the impending crisis” and to “urge the necessity of resisting northern and Federal aggression.”  It asks that the legislatures of the several states prepare military organizations to resist northern aggression and protect southern independence.  The executives of several southern states have responded favorably to the Association and are furthering the program of the Association.  Governor Gist, of South Carolina, is the key figure in furthering this conspiracy.

As if this were not bad enough, there is a Cabinet cabal.  This group is active in employing the powers and resources of the very Government it is sworn to serve to bring about its destruction.  I know that this is virtually unthinkable, but it is true nevertheless.  The central figures in the cabal are the Secretary of War, John Floyd of Virginia; the Assistant Secretary of State, W. H. Trescott of South Carolina; the Secretary of the Treasury, Howell Cobb of Georgia, and the Secretary of the Interior, Jacob Thompson of Mississippi.  Senators Davis of Mississippi, Clingman of North Carolina, and Wigfall of Texas are even now participating in and aiding the furtherance of this nefarious work of treason.  They have joined together to influence President Buchanan, who is fearful and indecisive, to allow the South to depart from the Union peacefully and not to meet southern secession with Federal force.  Buchanan says that, while he can find nothing in the Constitution to justify secession, neither can he find in it any authority to coerce a seceding state to return after its right of secession has been exercised.  He is absolutely helpless, as if he were suspended in thin air.  His situation is even worse.  Secretary Thompson planned to go to North Carolina to get his state to secede from the Union.  When told of this, Buchanan let Thompson know, indirectly, that he wished him success in his effort.  Can you imagine that: A head of state wishing his cabinet member success in his effort to incite an insurrection against his own Government?  We have come to this.

What was it Lincoln said?  “In my opinion it will not cease until a crisis shall have been reached and passed.”  Certainly, the crisis has been reached.  But it has not yet been passed.  Until it has been passed‑-and only God knows when this shall be‑-our walkways are becoming ever darker.  In the next few weeks we shall know where all this turmoil is leading us as a people.

In a few days, I expect, your family will be together again.  Do try to remain merry and hopeful, in spite of the difficulty of the times.  We shall be thinking, ever so fondly, of you and Rhoda and the children as you rejoice in and take strength in Heaven’s tidings of peace and goodwill.  For, certainly, Heaven offers our only hope.

May the joys of the season be yours.

 

In affection,

Hannibal

 

The group sat in stunned silence, not quite believing that events such as these could have occurred.

 

“It just doesn’t seem possible,” said Horace, breaking the silence, “that our leaders would engage in such treasonous acts.  While Buchanan may not be at the center of the cabal, he certainly has proven himself to be inept and incompetent.”

 

 

“Yes,” John said, “he certainly has.  The only mitigating factor, insofar as he is concerned, is that, according to reports, he will not allow the South to take Federal property.  But he seems willing to let the South secede.  It’s time that he departs the national scene.  We’re fortunate that Lincoln has won the Presidential election.  Just where would we be if Douglas, who is indifferent to the moral character of slavery and advocates popular sovereignty, or Breckinridge, who believes that slavery is morally right and politically beneficial, had been elected?”

 

There were a few hours yet remaining of this Christmas Eve.  The family then went to the parlor.  Rhoda seated herself at the piano.  Some of the children procured their musical instruments and seated themselves in a semicircle.  The family then sang several of the old, familiar carols.  John got the family Bible, turned to the Gospel of Luke, and read the verses that recount the story of Christ’s birth.  His voice faltered under the stress of strong emotion as he read of the angelic host’s message to a world‑-now an American world‑-filled with strife and at variance with the promise of Heaven: “. . . on earth peace, good will toward men.”

 

The great storm of the afternoon and early evening began to diminish. Nature had relented of her fury and had offered to the land her own gift of peace, as if she were obliged to compensate for the failure of humankind.  Amanda took her flute and stood by the Christmas tree.  She placed the flute to her lips and formed her embouchure.  The soft-colored light of the candles outlined her lithe figure, slightly inclined, as she held the instrument in her delicately formed hands.  She became, for the moment, a fair shepherdess on Bethlehem’s hills, playing in accompaniment to the praise of angels.  She played as none before had ever heard her.  She played no known song.  But it was a song of rapture, a flowing stream of harmony, the tones variously full and mellow and ethereal and attenuant.  She played on for several minutes.  All who heard her sat transfixed by the beauteous waves of melody.  For some few minutes after she had finished, the group remained quiet.  Then they sang together, before retiring for the night, the most touching and lovely of all hymns of Christmas:

 

Silent night!  Holy night!  All is calm, all is bright Round yon

virgin mother and Child!  Holy infant, so tender and mild,

Sleep in heavenly peace, Sleep in heavenly peace.

 

Silent night!  Holy night!  Shepherds quake, at the sight!  Glories

stream from heaven a-far, Heav’nly hosts sing Alleluia.

Christ, the Savior is born, Christ, the Savior is born.

 

Silent night!  Holy night!  Son of God, love’s pure light Radiant

beams from Thy holy face, With the dawn of redeeming grace,

Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth, Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.

 

Early Christmas morning the sun rose in a sky of cloudless blue.  The storm of the previous day had passed.  The air was cold and crisp.  The snow, a deep white blanket, lay quietly over the land.  The encircling forest-clad mountains, ascending to majestic heights, kept their watch over the river-cloven valley that was home to the family.  The men rose soon after sunrise and performed the early chores, while the women prepared breakfast.

 

This Christmas day of 1860 passed all-too-swiftly.  It was a day spent in the fraternity of affection.  Soon after the breakfast was finished, the family gathered in the parlor.  A roaring fire in the fireplace offered its light and warmth to every corner of the room.  One by one the gifts lying at the base of the Christmas tree were opened by the person whose name appeared on the wrapping.  Rhoda brought a large crystalline bowl of hot cider, which, with candies and nuts, added pleasure to the occasion.

 

 

The morning was filled with conversation.  The children recalled the years of their childhood and early youth when they were all together in the home.  At times three or four were gathered in a small circle, whose members soon changed as other circles formed.  John and Rhoda mingled freely with their children.  At other times they sat closely by each other and watched in silence as the children talked and laughed.

 

At 2:00 o’clock a bountiful Christmas dinner was served.  Again, the family gathered as a unit around the old, familiar table.  Horace, the eldest child, said the grace.  John carved the turkey.  It was a delicious meal: turkey and dressing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy, and hot bread from the oven.  Desert consisted of hot apple pie and coffee.  The meal finished, the family yet lingered around the table, reluctant to break the circle.  Yet there was work to be done: dishes washed and put away and the stock attended to.

 

When these tasks were completed, the members of the family returned to the parlor.  George placed two large logs in the fireplace, and it was not long until there was again a blazing fire.  It proved to be a thoughtful, quiet time.  There was, to be sure, some conversation between various members of the family, and at times one or another of the children took his or her musical instrument and sounded the notes of a carol.  The others then joined in song.  Although hearts were filled with joy, yet some strange aura of foreboding seemed to pervade the very atmosphere.  Some subtle stimulus brought to sensitive minds its disturbing and disconcerting effect.  The sweet was tinged with the bitter.

 

“Senator Hamlin mentioned in his letter, father,” Lewis said, “that President Buchanan finds nothing in the Constitution to justify secession or to counter secession with Federal force.  I’ve been thinking about this over the last several hours.  The original thirteen states voluntarily joined together to create the Union.  As time went on, the newer states likewise voluntarily joined the Union.  Doesn’t this give them the right to retract and leave the Union?  I wonder how Lincoln will handle this question, now that South Carolina has seceded and other southern states will doubtless follow suit.”

 

“Of course,” John replied, “I can’t speak for President-elect Lincoln.  I don’t know what he is thinking during these days of national stress.  But I can hazard a safe guess.  I’m quite sure that if South Carolina, for example, seizes Federal property, as the forts in the harbor, he will react with Federal force.”

 

“And that will mean war, Rhoda said.”

 

“Yes, Rhoda, I’m sure that it will.  And I believe that it is coming.  I believe that Lincoln will argue that no state has a right‑-constitutional or moral‑-to secede and destroy the Union.  If there is a war, this, and not slavery, will be the central question, at least at the beginning.  If you look at Lincoln’s addresses, this becomes quite clear.  Certainly, he’s against slavery, but his primary concern is to preserve the Union.”

 

“Then,” Marilla put in, “if the slaves should be freed, that will come as a side-effect of the war.”

 

“I believe so.”

 

“But let’s come back to the question,” Asa said, “as to the right of secession.  Does a state have that right?”

 

 

“I don’t believe that it does,” John replied.  “I think that this will be Lincoln’s argument: First, that if the Union is but an assemblage of states, which it isn’t, it yet cannot be broken or dissolved save by the consent of all‑-not just one or a few‑-of its members.  Second, if the Union is indeed a Union, which according to the Constitution it is, and not a mere collection of states, then its perpetuity is ingrained in its very nature and being.  This the Constitution recognizes.  The disruption of the Union may then, according to the Constitution, be resisted by the use of Federal force.  It’s that plain, and why Buchanan can’t see it, I’ll never know.”

 

“Lincoln will soon become President, and war will soon come,” Rhoda said, with a deep sigh.

 

“Yes, it is in the offing,” John replied, sadly.

 

The little group continued to linger, each person now realizing that such a gathering as this might not soon come again, if ever.  Each was lost in his or her thoughts.

 

It was evening.  The sun hung low over the western hills.  Its flaming orb shot rays of crimson and gold across the sky from horizon to horizon.  The members of the family gazed in wonderment at nature’s display of glory.  The dusky shadows filled the valley and crept slowly upward to cover the mountains to the east.  The brilliant colors that moments earlier adorned the heavens gradually faded, becoming faint traces of pink.  And then they were gone.  For one last, fleeting moment, a lingering gold played upon the crown of a majestic white pine, monarch of the highest ridge, silhouetted against a dark background, with its branches uplifted to the departing light. The sky turned from its darkening purple to the opaque black of night.  The night had come.

 

And then!  At first faintly, then with increasing intensity, Orion, the Star of Winter, appeared in the southeast.  It grew in brightness, announcing that the cycles yet lived and that beyond the night comes the day, its light the harbinger of the light everlasting.

 

John gazed at the Prescott Coat of Arms, which was etched in a plaque hanging on the wall above the mantle of the fireplace.  For a few moments he was silent.  He then spoke softly in the Latin, the syllables yielding to the cadence of that ancient tongue, “vincit qui patitur, vincit qui patitur.”