The Gates of Light: Chapter 11

Chapter 11

 

An Epilogue

Christmas, 1905

 

“. . . thou hast guided them in thy

strength unto thy holy habitation.”

Exod. 15:13

 

High in the Oregon Cascades of the Pacific Northwest, lies a lake, Crater Lake, whose limpid waters reflect the cold blue of the alpine sky.  It rests, with neither inflow nor outflow, within the secure walls of giant rock-ribbed cliffs, as if sculptured by a fiery chisel of an angry northern god of olden times.  Now, however, it is said that this lake, the jewel of the Cascades, is a volcanic lake, created by a violent eruption of the mountain.  The cone of the mountain, bearing witness to the post-mythic account, rises from the midst of the lake.  On the dethroned peak, settled forever in the encircling waters, rises a profusion of the great northwest evergreens.

 

The everlasting fountains lying beneath the mountain give rise to a river, the Rogue River.  Its waters, now gladdened by the light of the sun, rush swiftly down the mountain sides, eager to leave their berthing in the Cascades, to cleave through the Siskiyous, to traverse the Coast Range and, ultimately, to reach their final home in the great western ocean.  Black-backed mountain trout rise to feed upon the low-flying insects.  Within the shade of the immense firs, deer and bear feed on the lush vegetation.  At the water’s edge, on both sides of the stream, bloom the wild lilac, its profusion of colors of white, purple, and pink, scenting the still air with its fragrance.

 

Then, as if remembering its subterranean origin, the river sinks underground, only to emerge later from a large hole to rush through a precipitous gorge.  The stream then meets its main branch and flows westward through the miles of forest-clad valleys.  It skirts the little village of Grants Pass, named after Grant’s great victory at Vicksburg, turns north and northwest, forges its way through Hell Gate and crosses the rocky wilds of the Coast Range.  For a hundred miles the river is locked in the fast grip of the mountains.  It is finally released from its mountain-prison, by now two hundred miles in length, and flows placidly through the coastal slopes and joins the sea at Gold Beach.

 

 

A few miles east of Grants Pass, Oregon, a small stream, Evans Creek, flows from the north into the swift waters of the river.  Over the centuries, the creek has carved out a lovely valley, bordered on both east and west by mountain ranges.  A small village is situated at the junction of the two streams.

 

The agonizing years of the Civil War were over, beginning to fade into the mists of a past growing ever dim in the sight of Americans.  Some few miles toward the headwaters of Evans Creek, a farm was carved out of the forests that deck the fertile uplands at the edge of the higher ranges of mountains.  There, on that farm, a young lad was bringing in the livestock from the farther fields.  It was late afternoon, even early evening, and the shadows were beginning to drape the lower valleys.  The sky was blue, cloudless, yet beginning to turn a darker hue.  The lad, following behind the animals, walked through rich grass that reached his waist.  All about him, beyond the fields, were the thick forests of fir and pine.  The lad, moving slowly, at times prodding the stock on their homeward journey, mused over his good fortune to live in a land of natural opulence and beauty.  He was George Albert Prescott, the son of George and Naomi Prescott.  Some few years after the war, the family had moved to the new land of the West.

 

Another warrior-brother recalled that long-ago day, during the war, when he had gazed upon the Blue Ridge to his west and remarked to his soldier-brothers, “Beyond those hills, beyond the vast plains, in the West where there is no land beyond which the sun sets‑-I wonder what’s there, what it is like.  When this war is over, if I live, I’m going to find out.”  He had lived, and he had found out.  With his sons, Lewis Prescott was on this late afternoon bringing his dairy herd into the barn for the milking.  He, with his wife, Eunice, and children, had also, just after the war, accompanied his brother, George and his family, to Oregon.  The two brothers had settled near each other.  For Lewis now owned his dairy near Grants Pass, a few miles from George.

 

A short distance north of Crater Lake, another river, the Deschutes, takes its rise and flows in a northerly direction through the Cascades until it empties in the mighty Columbia River.  Having wended its way approximately one-third of its distance, the river suddenly bends westward and then, in another sharp turn, continues in its northerly course.  There, in the bend, a small village, Bend, is located.  It is a region, although bordering the high desert on the east, that is rich in timber.  Standing, west of Bend, as lofty sentinels of the high skyline ridge of the Cascades, are the three Sisters, volcanic upthrusts, each over 10,000 feet in height.

 

On that afternoon that had seen the activities of the Prescott brothers who lived farther south in the State, William Prescott, now the owner and operator of a lumber mill in the area, walked from the office, where his wife, Grace, sat working on the books, and paid his men their wages and bid them goodnight.  He was the third son of John and Rhoda Prescott who, like his brothers, had made the decision to move West.

 

Between the Cascade Range and the Coast Range, to the east, flows the Willamette River, which empties in the Columbia River where it leaves its westward course and turns to the northwest to reach the Pacific.  The valley, which the Willamette forms, is one of fertile farms.  Midway between the river’s source and its termination, is Salem, the capitol of the State.  Situated there is a small educational institution, appropriately named “Willamette University.”

 

 

The class in philosophy had been dismissed that afternoon, and the professor, accompanied by an interested student, slowly walked, with a noticeable limp, to his office.  He told the enthralled young student about the days of the late war, the terrible wound inflicted at Antietam, and the years spent with President Lincoln in the White House.  He told of his decision to pursue his father’s interest in philosophy, of his studies at Boston University with Bordon Parker Bowne, the founder of Personalism, and, finally, of his obtaining the Chair of Philosophy at Willamette.  He was Asa Prescott, who, with his family, followed his brothers westward to the “Land of the Empire Builders,” the “Land of the Golden West.”

 

They were all there in the West, the four of them, with their families.  Horace Prescott’s prophecy, made that day in the Wilderness of Virginia’s field of battle, had come true.  The brothers had become separated.  Only one brother, Horace, with his wife Eliza Ann, was in Maine, living on the old farm with his parents, John and Rhoda.  Horace had assumed the burden of the farm work, and Eliza Ann, of the home.  The load had lifted from the shoulders of the elder generation.  John and Rhoda, surrounded by their loved ones, could indeed say, with the Psalmist, that “the lines are fallen . . . in pleasant places,” that a “goodly heritage” was theirs‑-the heritage of a restored Union, the heritage of children hewing the foundation-timbers of a nation newly reborn in freedom.

 

The years sped onward, bringing the nineteenth century to a close.  It was now the fall of 1905.  Horace and Eliza Ann were living by themselves on the farm in Maine.  Horace’s parents, John and Rhoda, were at rest in their final earthly sleep.  The enactments of the autumn ritual brought to the leaves of oak and maple the flashing colors of red and crimson.  The fields of alfalfa and timothy yielded their bounty and filled the great barn, once again, to overflowing.  Vegetables, fruit, and meat were prepared for winter consumption.  Cords of wood were stored in the woodshed, ready to provide warmth during the long Maine months of winter.

 

There came an October evening when Horace and Eliza Ann were sitting near each other before the fireplace in the family room, watching the dancing flames sending their etchings of light throughout the room.  It was the quiet time of evening, when the work of the day was over and there was time to gather the strands of life into the patterns of meaning.

 

“Horace,” Eliza Ann said, breaking the silence with her soft voice, “this coming Christmas will mark the fortieth year since we were all together that first Christmas after the war.”

 

“Yes, my dear, I know.  I’ve been thinking about this as well.  It has been nearly forty years since I’ve seen my brothers, since we’ve both seen them and their families.  Even during the war, we boys often met and spent some periods of time together.  But now we’re separated by such vast distances.”

 

“What do you say, Horace, if I write the boys in the West and invite them to return to Maine and spend Christmas with us?”

 

“I would like that very much.  I believe that they and their wives, perhaps some of their grandchildren, could come.  Their children, however, may be preoccupied with their work and unable to get away.”

 

“Well, then,” Eliza Ann said, “that settles it.  I’ll write them.”

 

A few days later, each family received substantially the same letter:

 

Phillips, Maine

Monday, October 16, 1905

 

 

Dear _____,

 

This letter finds both of us well.  We’re enjoying a beautiful fall.  The leaves are now turning and, with fair sunlit skies, are resplendent in their rich colors.  Both Horace and I trust that you and the family are enjoying prosperity and health.  I’m sure that you are, from what you write of the Oregon climate.

We were thinking the other evening about how long it has been since we were together.  How the years have flown by!  This Christmas will be the fortieth year since we were together that first Christmas after the war.  What a memorable time it was.  How wonderful it was that the war was over.  But how sad that Amanda was no longer with us.  And now Mother and Dad are gone.

Yet we have so much for which to give thanks.  While you and others in the West are far away from us, we know that you are happy and prosperous.  We often see Hannah and Gilbert, Marilla and Henry, and Octavia and George, who, with their families, are either here or not too distant from us.  Our favorite time for our gathering together is Sunday afternoon.  When our families meet here, once again the old rooms resound with the cheer and laughter of children.  Many, many times it almost seems that Mother and Dad are present, sitting in their accustomed places and joining in the family festivity.

Now, the purpose of this letter, written to all of you there, is to ask you to come home‑-to come home to Maine and join us here, in this grand old house, to celebrate Christmas together.  The children may not be able to come, since I’m sure that they are very busy.  But you could bring some of the grandchildren.  How they would love to see the places about which they so often heard in the stories told them at bedtime.  Once more, before time closes all opportunity, we ought to celebrate Christmas here.  So please think about this and come if at all possible.

Horace and I anxiously await your reply.  We’re already beginning to set things up in the house for a grand crowd.

 

Our love,

Eliza Ann

 

When Asa and his wife, Eliza Miles, received Eliza Ann’s letter of invitation, Salem soon became the center of family correspondence.  Letters were exchanged, and, in some instances, arrangements were made over the telephone, the new marvel of communication.  It was finally decided that the brothers and those accompanying them would meet in Salem, from which all would proceed by land to Portland.  From there the group would take the train to the East.

 

What an exciting time it was for the Oregon families!  There was so much to do: assembling wardrobes, purchasing presents to be taken East, and making arrangements for the care of affairs at home.

 

The decision was reached that each couple would take two or three of their grandchildren.  Even with this limitation, the party was destined to assume rather large proportions.  The children who were to accompany their grandparents on the memorable trip were elated.  Now they were to see their great-aunt and great-uncle of whom they had heard so much, were actually to walk about the old Maine farm and look upon the places immortalized in story upon story of the olden days before the war, and to live for a time in the fabled farm home.

 

 

Not all the grandchildren could make the trip.  There were those too young to make the trip, as well as older ones who were so engaged as to be unable to take a long vacation.  George and Naomi were to bring James, named after James Prescott of New Hampshire, who came to this country in 1665, and Rhoda, who carried her great-grandmother’s name.  Raymond, named after his grandfather’s legendary Civil War cavalary companion, and Mary were to accompany their grandparents, Lewis and Eunice.  Asa and Eliza Miles’ grandchildren, Amanda and John, named after Asa’s sister and father, were under the care of their grandparents.  And, finally, William and Grace brought their Asa and Lewis.

 

In early December, before the snows gathered too deeply, the various parties made their way to Salem.  The journey taken by the party from southern Oregon was not at all difficult or strenuous.  George and Naomi and Lewis and Eunice, with their grandchildren in tow, travelled the valley highway between the Coast and Cascade ranges.  Fortunately, for Lewis and his party, the winter snows were late, so that he could get through the Santiam passes and reach Salem.  Then, after a couple of days with Asa and his family at the capitol, the entire party made its way to the bustling city of Portland.

 

And now began the trip that would remain etched indelibly in the memories of the young ones particularly.  However, those older in years were just about as excited as were the children accompanying them.  And what a trip, clear across the continent, it was!

 

The bands of steel rail stretched over countless miles along the old Oregon Trail, over which the lumbering prairie schooners had brought the first settlers of the last century to the land of promise.  As they gazed in fascination from the windows of the car, the children saw a new world opening before them.  The way led due east, along the southern shore of the vast Columbia River, past the gorgeous falls of Multnomah, then on to the Dalles.

 

“Look,” Lewis said to the children flocked around him.  “We’re crossing a river.  Do you know what river it is?”

 

“No,” the youngster, Asa, replied,  “I’ve never seen that river before.  How would I know its name?”

 

“Ah, my boy, but you have.  It’s our river at Bend, the Deschutes River.  It now becomes one with the Columbia.”

 

“How can that be the same river, so far from home?”

 

“And yet it is.  Now you begin to see how great and vast the country is.  In a few days, we’ll cross the Rockies, where a great river, the Missouri, begins and flows for hundreds of miles until it reaches the Mississippi‑-you’ve heard about it in school‑-and at last flows into the Gulf of Mexico.”

 

“I suppose it’s true, but it doesn’t seem possible.”  With that comment the young explorers acquiesced in the words of the geography lesson.

 

The course of the Old Trail led the tracks away from the Columbia, southeast to Pendleton and over the Blue Mountains to the Oregon-Idaho border.

The scenery in the Blue Mountains was spectacular.  The train wended its way through the clefts of many canyons and ravines, in which the clear streams raged in torrents and above which the towering snow-capped mountains reared their majestic heads heavenward.

 

 

Southeast, the rails continued to follow the route of the pioneers.  It kept company, for many miles, with the Snake River, whose headwaters in the Rockies were but a few miles from those of the Missouri, which carried the waters of the eastern Rockies to the farther eastern shores of the country.  The iron horse, with its marvel of steam power, pulled the cars eastward from Salt Lake City, through the passes of the Rockies and through the many tunnels chiseled through the monuments of granite.  From the heights of the backbone of the country, the continental divide, the rails followed the eastern slope of the great mountain range to Cheyenne, the capitol city of Wyoming.  Then it was on through the immeasurable distance of the great plains, where once the buffalo roamed by the millions, to Omaha, Nebraska, the famous jumping off place when the railroads were laid to the Pacific shores.

 

One day, at midmorning, the great train pulled into the station at Ottumwa, Iowa.  As the train slowed to a standstill, Asa stood at the window, anxiously searching the crowd standing at the depot.  He soon exclaimed to his wife, standing beside him, “There he is!  I would know him anywhere!”

 

When the train stopped, Asa descended to the platform and made his way to his old companion in suffering, who also had fought and suffered at Antietam.  “George,” Asa shouted over the noise of the excited crowd, “how splendid to see you after all these years!”

 

The person was George L. Eaton, who had met Asa when both were recuperating in the hospital at Washington during the winter of 1862, following their ordeal at Antietam.  Asa had arranged the rail journey so as to be able to spend a few minutes with his old friend.

 

“Yes,” George replied, “it’s good to meet again.  Those days in the hospital were anxious days for both of us, but we came through.  And even more importantly, the country came through and put its terrible ordeal behind.  How fortunate it was that we could play our small part in the victory of the Union.”

 

“We were privileged, of that I become more confident with each passing year,” Asa said with feeling.  “I recall what Oliver Holmes said some years after the war, ‘Through our great good fortune, in our youth our hearts were touched with fire.’  Our hearts were, without question, warmed with the purifying flames of selflessness.”

 

“How strange,” George rejoined, “that it should take war to ennoble our hearts and cause us to live for a purpose transcending the scope of our personal lives and fortunes.”

 

For the few minutes remaining, the two talked of former days.  Then the two introduced their wives.

 

“This is my wife, Elizabeth Ann,” George said, as he presented her.  “As I mentioned years ago, she and you are related.  Her mother was a Prescott.  And here is our youngest child, Caroline Prescott, named after her grandmother, Caroline McClintick Prescott, who married Oliver Delaware.”

 

Asa and his wife embraced the lovely young lady of seventeen years, and expressed their joy in meeting her.

 

“Dad has often spoken of you,” Carrie said.  “He was so happy to have your friendship during the days of his recovery.  We have Dad’s diary, and I’ve read about his time at the hospital in Washington.  And now I have the opportunity to see you and talk with you.  It is wonderful to have the long ago past come alive today.”

 

 

The stopover in Ottumwa was of short duration, just long enough to take on water and coal.  The whistle blew a short, melancholy note, and the conductor cried, “All aboard!”  The people who had detrained left the platform and reentered the coaches.  With a note of farewell, the engine moved the train out of the depot yard, and soon, with increased speed, the passengers were swiftly sped on their journey to the East.

 

In just over an hour, the train reached the Mississippi River, at which the youngsters gazed in amazement as their car crossed the vast expanse of water.  Late that evening, the travellers reached Chicago.  After changing to an eastern line, the party retired for the night, while the locomotive pulled the cars northeast along the southern shores of the two easternmost great lakes, Erie and Ontario.  After reaching Buffalo, the tracks led east, over the Hudson River at Albany, until they reached the Atlantic shore at Boston.  From this famous old city, the party entrained for Portland, Maine, from which they proceeded the short distance to the old home in southwestern Maine.

 

The group had travelled during several days and nights.  With a sense of relief the members of the party gathered their suitcases and packages in readiness for the final detraining from the cars.  They stood at the windows, looking ahead to catch sight of the station.  Then, with the hissing of steam and screeching of wheels, the train was brought to a standstill at the little station.

 

There they were: Horace and Eliza Ann, Hannah and Gilbert, Marilla and Henry, and Octavia and George.  And with them were two couples of close friends, prepared, if necessary, to help transport the travellers to the Prescott home.  It was not like it had once been when arrivals were greeted.  No longer were there great sleds, runners sinking into the deep snow, drawn by teams of horses, shaking their heads and blowing gusty draughts of breath into the crisp winter air.  Now the roads were cleared and beside the depot was a line of new touring automobiles, Buicks and Oldsmobiles.

 

There was a pell-mell rush, streams of people, momentarily dropping  their baggage, rushing into the arms of their loved ones whom they had not seen for decades.  There were the children, shouting for joy, and falling into the arms of aunts and uncles whom they now met for the first time.  It sounded as if Babel had returned, voices mingling in a chorus of confusion, everybody trying to make up for the years of separation.

 

“Now, come on!” Horace shouted over the noise.  “We’ve got the rest of the year to catch up.  George, you and Naomi and the children come with us.  The rest of you pile in where you can find room.  I fought one war, and I’m not going to try to bring order out of this confusion!”

 

The merry group was quickly settled in the automobiles.  With Horace taking the lead, the caravan was soon on its way home.  It was like a triumphal procession.  No happier, joyful group could be found anywhere.  In each car, there was a buzz of conversation, intermixed with peals of laughter.  As the caravan passed homes along the road–homes still occupied by those who had known the westerners from days long gone by‑-the friends of yesteryears stood on their porches and waved to the passersby.  It promised, indeed, to be a glorious homecoming.

 

“This trip was much easier than our trip west forty years ago,” George remarked to his brother.  “The trains and the service have improved vastly over the years.”

 

“Yes, I’m sure that’s right,” replied Horace.  “But, you know, in the future some of these young ones will come by airplane.  It’s been but four years since Kitty Hawk, and the time will come when people will fly across the continent in a few hours.  We won’t live to see that day, but our grandchildren will.”

 

“And the automobile is changing things drastically.  It’s such a convenience.  Yet I’m fond of the old days, when we cared for our great horses and worked with them in the fields.  But, I suppose, we have to yield to what’s called ‘progress.'”

 

It was not long until the party arrived at the old Prescott home.  As the cavalcade turned from the road into the lane leading to the house, Lewis, who was riding in the car driven by his brother-in-law, Gilbert Kingsbury, sighed.  “Oh, how wonderful to ride through this old lane once more.  Just look at these great trees lining the lane on both sides; how they have grown!”  As the car proceeded west down the lane, Lewis saw the orchard on his right, the trees, long since replacing those he had known, lined row upon row.  The car made the left turn of the lane; there, just ahead, was the great house, fronting the river.  The car stopped before the huge front porch, the grape arbor covering its walls as it had during the days gone by.  Lewis stepped from the high running board of the car, and looked to the south.  There, in its ruggedness, was the great barn, still intact, which his father and brothers had built with their father in the long-ago days.  And there was the old woodshed, in which he and his brothers slept during the summers.  Ah, were those tears moistening his eyes?

 

The other automobiles drew up and their occupants stepped down.  For some, it was a return; for others, a new event.  A beautiful collie, named “Laddie,” came up to the group to offer his welcome to the guests.  He came to the children, sat on his haunches and lifted his paw, and was immediately rewarded by hugs and caresses from the young admirers.  The members of the party then trooped into the house, stomping the snow from their boots and piling outer coats wherever a space could be secured.

 

“Horace,” Eliza Ann said, addressing her husband, “show the men where to take their luggage and wraps.”

 

“All right,” he replied.  “We’ve turned the house into something like an army barrack,” he added, turning to his brothers.

 

It was true.  There were beds and cots lined in various rooms, particularly the third-floor bedrooms, where the children were to sleep.  The bedrooms on the second floor and the family room on the first floor were sufficient to accommodate the adult guests.

 

“I don’t know what we’re going to have for supper, ” Eliza Ann informed the others.  “I’ve been so busy and excited that I’ve not prepared much of an evening meal.”

 

But she needn’t have worried.  As she stepped into the kitchen, she saw two of her friends busy preparing a meal.  “What on earth are you doing?” she asked.

 

“We knew you needed some help,” one of the ladies responded.  “So we decided to come over while you were away.  You can have us arrested, if you wish, for we did ‘break in’ and have raided the pantry and cellar.”

 

There was a ripple of laughter, as the friends embraced.  There it was, the evening meal nearly prepared for the hungry travelers.  There were loaves of freshly-baked bread, plates filled with ham, potatoes, and corn.  Apple and berry pies, baking in the oven, filled the room with their aroma.  Milk, hot chocolate, and coffee, stood in the containers, ready to be served.

 

Some quiet and semblance of order had now been restored.  The ladies assisted in setting the tables and preparing the meal.  The men, particularly the four brothers, roamed through the old, familiar rooms.

 

“I’m going up to Dad’s library,” Asa announced.  With his brothers, he was soon in the second-floor room where as boys they had listened as their father read from the pages of classical literature.  It was as it had always been: the fireplace with its marble mantle graced by the statue of mythical figures; the windows covered by drapes cascading in folds toward the carpeted floor; the desk and chair in the center of the room; and walnut bookcases lining the walls.  There seemed to be there, in the room, a presence of him whom the sons loved and revered.

 

“You may want to take some of the books, Asa,” Horace said.

 

“No, they should stay here; they belong here.  I may, however, take one book that I’d very much like to place in my own library.”

 

He soon located the book.  It was a copy of Plato’s Dialogues, a profusion of notes penned by John on the margins of the pages.

 

“Yes, do take it,” Horace agreed.  “Dad would like that, I’m sure.  It will be a fitting reminder of what he meant to you in the old days.”

 

The group was called to the dining room and kitchen, where additional tables and chairs were placed, for supper.  And a welcome feast it was, for everybody was hungry after the day of travel and excitement.  They partook of the bounty leisurely, and after the meal lingered around the tables, loath to leave.  The rooms were filled with the music of modulated voices in conversation.  Then it was time to get the children to bed, clear the tables, and wash the dishes.  “Good nights” were said before retiring for the night. Laddie, the collie, also knew that it was time to call it quits, for, after the children left him, he jumped into his box behind the kitchen range.

 

The adults awakened early the next morning to find a mantle of deep snow covering the land.  The great evergreens, their boughs drooping, wore nature’s clothing of glistening white.  The sun, just rising over the eastern mountains, brushed the horizon with wispy tints of gold and rose that accentuated the blue sky and ivory clouds.  It promised to be a lovely day, just right for the activities that lay in the offing.

 

The age-old farm routine was again observed.  While the men did the morning chores, the ladies prepared breakfast.  These duties accomplished, the children were roused from bed and called to their places at the breakfast tables.

 

“Well, I must say,” William observed, “you ladies have prepared a good old-fashioned Maine breakfast.”

 

And, indeed, it was just that: eggs, bacon, ham, pancakes, toast and jellies, coffee for the adults and hot chocolate for the younger ones.

 

“We have breakfasts like this in Oregon,” Mary informed the group.

 

“Yes, that’s true, Mary,” her mother responded.  “But perhaps that’s because we remember when we were young and living here in Maine.”

 

“Now, you children,” William put in, “eat heartily, because you’re going to need all the energy today that you can muster.”

 

“Why is that, Granddad?” his grandson, Lewis, asked.

 

“Do you remember my telling you how, just before the great war, and also after the war was over, I drove the team and sled up in the mountains to get a Christmas tree?  Well, we’re going up there in the sled this morning to get one.  I know exactly where to go.”

 

“Uncle Lewis,” James said, “that’s been a long time ago, and you may have forgotten where the place is.”

 

“No, I don’t think so.  There are some things a person never forgets.  I’ll get you there.  Grace, you must come with us; I’ve got to show an Oregonian that there are great forests in Maine as well as in your native state.”

 

For the six children, the wait for the promised expedition was well-nigh unendurable.  But the time finally arrived when William pulled up at the front door in the sled.  Horace had, over the long years, kept the sled in mint condition.  It was pulled by a team of magnificent bays.  They, like the children, were anxious to get moving.  William kept a tight rein, as the great Percherons stomped their feet and shook their heads, causing their harness, bedecked with bells, to ring out in the crisp air.  But in no time at all Grace and the children were aboard, their legs covered with warm blankets and their feet protected by the thick straw that covered the floor of the sled.  Laddie jumped in and curled up in the straw just as the sled began to move.

 

For William, it was a reliving of days long past.  He drove the team out the lane, up into the hills to the east.  “We’ll take the right glen,” William shouted over the singing runners, as the sled topped a small rise.  “There will be a fine tree somewhere close by.  This is the place I’ve so often told you about‑-where I used to get our Christmas trees.”

 

In a few moments, William pulled the sled to a stop in a thick grove of trees.   James, who because he was a little older than his cousins, kept a sharp lookout, determined to be the first to spot the proper tree.  “There it is!” he cried, as he pointed to a beautifully well-proportioned pine about eight feet high.

 

There was no question.  The tree was the proper height, and its branches were thick and well-formed.  The decision in favor of this particular tree was unanimous.

 

“Everybody out!” shouted William.  All of the occupants piled out of the sled into the deep snow.  In a moment snowballs flew every which way, so that it was with difficulty that William could get the axe and proceed to cut the tree.  But he finally managed to accomplish his task and placed the tree in the sled.  It was not without some difficulty that the people found room in the sled, arranged around the tree so as not to damage it.  Soon the great horses were pulling the sled homeward at a fast trot.

 

William drove the sled to the barn, unharnessed the horses, and, with a slap on their rumps, informed them, “There’s your oats; go to it; you’ve earned your feed.”  The men soon had the tree standing in its usual place in the parlor.  The children were gathered around the fireplace, drinking mugs of hot chocolate.

 

 

“Now, Children,” Eliza Ann announced, “after supper we’ll decorate the tree.”  This announcement, as it always does, brought a joyful response from the children.  And to be truthful, the adults were also anticipating the beautiful Christmas ritual.

 

After the evening meal was finished, the ladies, with the children, began decorating the tree.  The ladies placed the candles on the tips of the boughs, while the children threaded strings of cranberries and popcorn through the branches.  A star‑-the one employed over the many years‑-was placed on the top of the tree.

 

The men had been conversing in the study, but came into the parlor just as the decoration of the tree was completed.  The soft glow of the candles, the gleam of light emanating from the softly crackling fire in the fireplace, the shadowed silhouette of objects unreached by light‑-all these cast a mystic spell upon the worshippers of the evangel-star of Christmas.  Naomi sat at the piano and began playing the old, favorite carols.  One voice, another, then all, joined in, adding to the instrument the human miracle of word blended with song.  It was Christmas!  Christmas at home!  And yet, for the guests, so far from their western home, there were pensive thoughts of those loved ones so far away.

 

It was now Christmas Eve, Sunday, December 24, 1905.  After the morning worship service in the chapel by the river, the entire Prescott family gathered in the parental home for a pot-luck dinner.  They were all there together: Horace and Eliza Ann and their guests; Hannah and Gilbert, Marilla and Henry, and Octavia and George.  And the young guests were, this evening, accompanied by some of their Maine cousins.  It was a joyous occasion, and one, certainly, in which no one could in any sense of the word feel deprived of adequate companionship.  That evening the children played together, at times coming into the parlor, where the adults were engaged in conversation.  Again, there was the sound of music.  Voices blended with piano, violin, and flute in praise of heaven’s gift to the children of earth.

 

After the children retired for the night, the adult members of the family remained in the parlor.  Little groups of two or three engaged in conversation.  During a brief period of momentary silence, George turned to his sister-in-law, Eliza Ann, and asked, “Why don’t you tell us about Mother and Dad and their work in the South after the war?  We know something about this, from the letters you wrote during that time, but I’m sure that we would welcome a more detailed account.”

 

Others expressed their wish to hear the story.  So Eliza Ann began her narrative of those former days.

 

 

It was a cold, snowy day in February, 1866.  John and Rhoda sat in the family room.  The fire in the fireplace snapped and crackled, sending forth its cheery warmth throughout the room.

 

“Well, Rhoda,” John said, lifting his glance from the newspaper, “I see that the war is on.  President Johnson has vetoed the Freedman’s Bureau Bill, because the Bureau has been given greater power over the South.”

 

 

His prediction was true: the war was on.  The executive and congressional branches of the government were at loggerheads over the issue of southern reconstruction.  The executive plan was, in Lincoln’s words, “to let ’em up easy.”  The plan was based on the view that, since the Union was indestructible, the southern states had not seceded, but were merely in an improper practical relationship with the Union.  The proper relationship was reestablished, according to the executive theory, when ten percent of the citizens of each state took the oath of allegiance, received presidential pardon, and met in convention to ratify a constitution that declared secession invalid, repudiated war debts, and abolished slavery.  By autumn of 1865, all the southern states except Texas had met these conditions and were recognized by President Johnson as indestructible entities in a restored Union.

 

However, Congress took a different view as to the nature of southern secession.  On this view, secession took those states out of the Union.  Since, according to the Constitution, the admission of states into the Union is a congressional prerogative, the process of reconstruction of seceded states is a congressional one.

 

This issue between the executive and congressional branches of the government had been joined during Lincoln’s last days as President.  In July of 1864, he had pocket-vetoed the Wade-Davis Bill, which provided for the congressional oversight of restoration.  The two congressmen then issued the Wade-Davis Manifesto, which spoke to the issue in no uncertain terms:

 

The President . . . must understand that the authority of Congress is paramount and must be respected . . . and if he wishes our support he must confine himself to his executive duties‑-to obey and execute, not make the laws‑-to suppress by arms armed rebellion, and leave political restoration to Congress.

 

Now, when Congress met in session on December 4, 1865, it refused to seat the newly-returned southern members of the Senate and the House.  Instead, it appointed a joint committee to investigate conditions in the South.  The President then threw down the gauntlet by his February, 1866, veto of the Freedman’s Bureau Bill.  The Congress responded, within a month, by passing, over presidential veto, a Civil Rights Bill, which forbade the states to discriminate between citizens on the basis of race or color.  The issue between the two branches of government was now firmly joined.

 

The congressional plan of reconstruction stipulated that a majority, not merely ten percent, of the citizens of a state must take the oath of allegiance as the condition of reentering the Union.  The southern states were also required to repeal their Black Codes, to disqualify those active in the rebellion from holding state office, and to guarantee the Negro his civil rights, including the right to vote and hold office.  By these means, it was thought, the Republican party would retain its power in government and preserve the gains procured by the war.

 

“I wonder,” Rhoda said, “if Lincoln’s moderate plan, even if he had lived, would have worked.  Look what happened when the southern governments were first established.  The states enacted the Black Codes, which effectively placed the Negro in a condition of servitude and repression more extreme, even, than he endured in the days of slavery.  Perhaps the more severe policy of Congress is necessary, and thus inevitable.”

 

“That may well be,” John answered, “but I wish a more moderate design were possible.”

 

“Here’s an example of the Black Codes,” Rhoda said.  She picked up a newspaper dated earlier, and read a piece describing conditions in Louisiana:

 

 

. . . no negro or freedman shall be allowed to come within the limits of the town of Opelousas without special permission from his employers. . . .  Whoever shall violate this provision shall suffer imprisonment and two day’s work on the public streets or pay a fine of five dollars. . . .  No negro or freedman shall be permitted to rent or keep a house within the limits of the town under any circumstances. . . .  No negro or freedman shall reside within the limits of the town . . . who is not in the regular service of some white person or former owner. . . .  No public meetings or congregations of negroes or freedmen shall be allowed within the limits of the town. . . .  No negro or freedman shall be permitted to preach, exhort, or otherwise declaim to congregations of colored people without a special permission from the mayor or president of the board of police. . . .  No freedman . . . shall be allowed to carry firearms, or any kind of weapons. . . .  No freedman shall sell, barter, or exchange articles of merchandise within the limits of Opelousas without permission in writing from his employer. . . .

 

“This sort of thing,” John remarked, “certainly gives the Congress support in its conflict with President Johnson.  General Schurz’s report to the President on conditions in the South likewise tended to weaken his position:”

 

Violent efforts were made by white people to drive the straggling negroes back to the plantations by force, and reports of bloody outrages inflicted upon colored people came from all quarters. . . .  negroes, women as well as men, whose ears had been cut off or whose bodies had been slashed with knives or bruised with whips, or bludgeons, or punctured with shot wounds.  Dead negroes were found in considerable number in the country roads or on the fields, shot to death or strung upon the limbs of trees.  In many districts the colored people were in a panic of fright, and the whites in a state of almost insane irritation against them.

 

One day, in the late summer of 1866, Rhoda received a letter from a friend who worked with the Freedman’s Union Commission.

 

Richmond, Virginia

Tuesday, August 29, 1866

 

My Dear Rhoda,

 

This letter will, I’m quite sure, come as a surprise.  For the past several days, I have intended to write you, not only to contact you again, but to inform you of conditions in the South.

I am here in Richmond working with the Freedman’s Union Commission, in the hope that I shall do my part to relieve the deplorable condition in the South.

It is appalling to view the devastation that the war has brought to the South.  Here in Richmond, the center of the city lies in utter ruin.  Buildings, once the center of commercial activity, are but blackened skeletons.  Everywhere, as far as one can see, there are heaps of cinders and other debris cluttering the streets, making them impassable.  Houses have collapsed, filling their cellars with bricks and rubbish.  Half the population are without food, and if it were not for the government rations would soon starve to death.

The situation in the countryside is no better.  The roads and bridges are destroyed.  No longer does livestock roam the pastures.  Barns have been destroyed.  Where once there were proud mansions and homes there are now but blackened chimneys standing without roofs, windows, and doors.  Much of the region is but a wilderness, in which deer run wild in the forests reclaimed by Nature’s response to the scorched earth.

 

But what concerns me the most, and what has brought me to Richmond, is the condition of the schools.  With the defeat of the Confederacy, the schools have been closed, although schools for white children are beginning to reopen.  However, the southern reluctance to permit the education of colored people leaves the negro children bereft of the hope of education.  Both the American Missionary Society and the Freedman’s Union Commission, under which I work‑-since the Commission is nonsectarian‑-are, with help from the Freedman’s Bureau, doing much to relieve this situation.  I find the negro children both intelligent and anxious to learn.

We need more help.  There are too few teachers to do an effective educational work.  I am writing you to see if you and John might be able to come to Richmond, for at least a good period of time, and help us.

If you are able and inclined to do so, let me know.  I will assist you in finding a place to stay and facilitate in every way I can your efforts to help us.  I look forward to hearing from you.

 

Most Affectionately,

Abigail

 

Later in the month, John and Rhoda travelled west and south over the route that they had previously taken when they went to Washington for the Grand Review of the Army of the Potomac.  They caught the train to Portland, Boston, and New York.  Then it was on to Philadelphia and from there to Baltimore.  Their rail car was drawn from the President Street station to the Camden Street station.  The forty miles to Washington were covered swiftly.  At the Washington depot, they were met, as before, by Hannibal Hamlin, who still resided in Washington, and to whom they had written of their plans.

 

“I’m so glad to see both of you,” he said, as he greeted his friends of many years.  “So you’re both going to help the cause of education in the South.  I think that is splendid.”

 

“We’ve been wondering,” John said, “as to the best way to get to Richmond.  What do you think?”

 

“It would be better to take the steamer to City Point, then go by the military railroad to Richmond.  But, meanwhile, you must spend a few days here with us.”

 

John and Rhoda spent two days with their friends.  They then followed the advice of Hannibal and proceeded to Richmond by boat and rail.  Abigail and her husband were on hand to greet them upon their arrival.

 

“We have had some difficulty,” Abigail said, “in finding places for northern teachers to stay.  Many southern whites are quite hostile to what they call ‘northern intrusion.’  But we have found a very comfortable place for you in the home of the minister of one of Richmond’s churches.”

 

The party of four was soon at the front door of the parsonage.  John and Rhoda were introduced to the minister and his wife, Wesley and Helen Moore.  After some words of welcome, the minister turned to John, “We once befriended a young Union solder who had escaped from Belle Island Prison and assisted him in his attempt to gain the Union lines.  He had your surname; he was William Prescott.  We never knew whether or not he was successful in his attempt to join the Union forces.”

 

“Such a coincidence,” Rhoda exclaimed.  “He is our son, and he did make it through.  In fact, the first Union soldier he met when he regained the lines was his brother, Lewis, then with the First Maine cavalry.”

 

“Well, what do you know?” Wesley said.  “You’re doubly welcome.  We’re privileged to offer our hospitality once again to your family.  We will do everything we can to make your stay with us pleasant.  Please let us know if we can be of any help as you begin your teaching duties.”

 

 

The school in which Rhoda commenced her work was located in an abandoned store not far from the home in which she and her husband were staying.  There were approximately one hundred fifty colored boys and girls in attendance.  Rhoda was asked to teach a group of children that had just entered the school.  The children had no ability to read whatsoever.  For several days, she worked with the children, showing them the individual letters of the alphabet‑-their shapes and how they were pronounced.  They were soon able to place the letters in combinations so as to form words with which they were familiar, and still later, to combine the words into short sentences.

 

The children grew extremely fond of their teacher, and often brought her small gifts: a piece of candy, a flower, or anything that served to express their appreciation.  One day a student who was exceptionally bright and had made good progress in writing, gave Rhoda a note:

 

Dear Teacher, I love you very much.  You are so good to me.  You have taught me so many words that I can put them together in this note to you.  Sometimes I am bad, but you still like me.  I will always try to please you.

 

In addition to the First Reader, Rhoda read the children Bible passages, particularly verses from the Psalms.  She noticed how the children responded to the poetry and rhythm of the lines of verse.  Of special interest to her was the fact, according to one young scholar, that “Uncle Sam wrote the Ten Commandments.”  One small pupil asserted that Jesus Christ was “Massa Linkum.”  She also had the children read patriotic literature, as John Greenleaf Whittier’s anti-slavery poems and Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address.  She taught the children the song, that was to become their favorite, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” which they often sang with much expression.

 

During those days, there was much hostility shown to teachers from the North.  On several occasions, even, teachers were shot at, although Rhoda did not experience this threat to her safety.  She was always careful, as many were not, lest she impose northern attitudes upon the children, and through them upon their parents, that would intensify the tension between the North and the South.

 

The work of the northern teachers, although in many instances modelled after New England schools, did, however, teach the youngsters how to read and write.  They were thus equipped, when they entered the tasks of adulthood to  read their labor contracts and look after their money.  During these days of her teaching, this awareness of the future value of her work gave her the strength to continue in her arduous work of love.

 

One of Rhoda’s more advanced students wrote to his friend:

 

Now the white people south says that the yankee are no friend to the southern people.  That’s a mistaken idea.  The Northerners do not advise us to be at enemity against any race.  They teach us to be friends. . . .  If you say the yankee is no friend how is it that the ladies from the north have left their homes and come down here.  Why are they laboring day and night to elevate the colored people?  Why are they shut out of society in the South?  The question is plain.  Answer it. . . .  I am going to school now to try to learn some things which I hope will enable me to be of some use to my race.  These few lines will show that I am a new beginner.  The Lord has sent us books and teachers.  We must not hesitate a moment, but go on and learn all we can.

 

 

 

 

Although a lover of the classics and philosophical literature, John realized that something more was necessary to equip colored people with the means to earn a living in the newly emerging South.  He therefore contacted Lewis Lockwood, who was an agent of the American Missionary Association, and offered to assist him in the work at the Hampton Normal and Agricultural Institute.  John’s offer was gratefully accepted.  Since Hampton, Virginia was a considerable distance from Richmond, John lived in that city while he taught at the Institute.

 

The course of study was a three-year program.  John worked with those students in their second and third years.  He gave the second-year scholars instruction in agriculture, emphasizing the method of crop-rotation.  He taught his students how to till the land so as to minimize erosion.  He gave the third-year students instruction in the natural sciences.

 

John taught at Hampton until the close of the term in mid-December, when he returned to Richmond.  He and Rhoda, her work also completed, spent a few days with their hosts.  During the evenings, their late autumn chill dispelled by the burning logs in the fireplace, the two couples exchanged views concerning the political events transpiring in the nation’s capitol.

 

“I disapprove of the legislation of our southern states, which so seriously disadvantages the Negro,” Wesley said one evening.  “I believe that if the states had accepted the consequence of Negro freedom and had made the attempt to adjust to the new situation, rather than trying to restore the old ways, the policy of Lincoln and Johnson could have been successful.”

 

“That’s one side of the problem, I’m sure,” John responded.  “On the other hand there are those in the North who want to punish the South.  They opposed Lincoln when he was alive.  And now they oppose even more stridently his successor, whom they do not classify as a Republican.”

 

“I suppose there is blame on both sides.”

 

“I believe,” John continued, “that in a short while the entire South will be under military supervision, which will last several years.  It will be difficult for you, I know.  But the time will come when the North will tire of its intervention in southern affairs.  Then it will be up to the South to forge its own destiny.”

 

“That is undoubtedly true,” John’s host replied.  “I see a new South‑-a South of greater and diversified agriculture, and a South of industrial and manufacturing centers.  But I see something else, which I wish I did not see.  I see the Negro forced back into conditions of servitude nearly as severe as those of slavery, and even more so, when he is without the benefits, in terms of care and protection‑-property, you know, is always valuable‑-that slavery afforded.”

 

“You paint a dismal picture, Wesley,”  Helen put in.  “Nevertheless, you are probably correct.”

 

“Yet,” Rhoda interjected, “I believe that the time will come when the Negro will be given a fuller measure of civil rights, including the right to make a decent living.”

 

“That time will most assuredly come,” John added, “but not in this century.  And if it comes in the next century, the twentieth, it will be late in the century.  We will not live to see it.  We are destined to endure the legacy of our long national sin of slavery.”

 

“But we are making progress,” Wesley concluded.  “The Negro will soon, I think, be given his franchise, and this will be the opening into a new era for him and the country.  Your work here, John and Rhoda, is part of that opening.  For education is the way to freedom.  The key is knowledge; ‘The truth shall make you free.'”

 

The embers in the fire were dying out.  A shroud of soft dusk seemed to bring the four closer in the bonds of affection and aspiration.  Again, a Christmas season was in the offing.  Wesley read a few passages from Luke’s account of the Savior’s birth, and the four friends knelt in prayer.  They sang a verse of “Silent Night” and then retired for the night.

 

The following day John and Rhoda bade their friends goodby and began their journey homeward.  They visited the military cemetery, where Amanda was buried, and then retraced their route of some months earlier, and were back in their home in Maine a few days before the Christmas of 1866.

 

 

“And we were so glad to see them,” Eliza Ann said to the group to whom she had recounted the events of that long ago decade.  “We were together for our Christmas celebration that year‑-all of the Maine Prescotts reunited.  And you,” she added, turning to the westerners, “were just barely settled in your new homes.”

 

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear.  A white blanket of snow lay upon the land.  The night winds had subsided, allowing the gently falling snow to drape the branches of the great evergreens with their thick garments of snow.  The luminous rays of the sun, just rising over the eastern hills, touched the landscape with a shimmering flood of radiance.

 

Horace and his brothers rose early and made their way to the great barn.  They thought of the days of their youth when they, with their father, had performed the farm chores of time immemorial.  Having milked the cows and fed the livestock, they returned to the house, to find breakfast prepared and waiting for them.  All gathered around the tables to enjoy a substantial breakfast.

 

The family, which now included those living in Maine, gathered in the parlor for the exchange of presents.  The weather was warm enough to permit the children to play outdoors.  The adults enjoyed the time of relaxation and engaged in pleasant conversation.  At mid-afternoon a delicious Christmas dinner was served.  Again, the group made their way to the spacious parlor, where a blazing fire spread its warmth and glow through the room.

 

“The war,” Octavia observed, “left in its wake two serious problems: the problem of the negro and the problem of industrial exploitation.  Asa, you played a part in the effort to curb that exploitation.  In your estimation, why did these excesses of big business take such control of the country after the war, and what were the significant moves in the attempt to curb them?  Can you tell us something of the story?”

 

“Yes, I think so.  As you know, after the war we moved to Boston, where I attended Boston University.  Both my class work and perusal of the newspapers and magazines gave me an added insight into the alliance between the government and eastern industry and the effects of that alliance on the larger population of the country.  In Boston, and later in Salem, I came to know some of the people who were advocating economic and social reform.  And I finally decided to join them in the fight for justice.

 

“In the early 1880s the congressman from Iowa, General James B. Weaver, gave a series of lectures at Willamette University.  I was at that time, of course, aware of the excesses of business and monopoly, but when I met the General and heard him speak, I felt that I had found the answer to our national difficulties.”

 

 

The faculty and students were assembled in the chapel, which was filled to overflowing.  The speaker, as later described by a reporter, was

 

about the average height, notably erect and soldierly in his bearing, spare as an Indian, one of those wiry, tireless, alert, but notably self-controlled men that seem to carry about them a certain unescapable aura of power and distinction. . . .  His aquiline, high-bred features, commanding gray eyes, curling gray hair, closely trimmed military mustache were parts of the total impression of him. . . .  He had an excellent voice, mellow and yet of great carrying power . . . here was a man essentially a Puritan, rigid as iron in his faith . . . and yet having an exquisite sense of humor.  He could cut and sting in debate; he was a master of the sardonic and the absurd.

 

The melodic voice of the speaker, General Weaver, filled the auditorium, bringing his hearers under the spell of his incisive words:

 

We are nearing a serious crisis.  If the present strained relations between wealth owners and wealth producers continue much longer they will ripen into frightful disaster.  The universal discontent must be quickly interpreted and its causes removed.  It is the country’s imperative Call to Action, and can not be longer disregarded with impunity.

The sovereign right to regulate commerce among our magnificent States, and to control the instruments of commerce, the right to issue currency and to determine the money supply for sixty-three million people and their posterity, have been leased to associated speculators.  The brightest lights of the legal profession have been lured from their honorable relation to the people in the administration of justice, and through evolution in crime the corporation has taken the place of the pirate; and finally a bold and aggressive plutocracy has usurped the Government and is using it as a policeman to enforce its insolent decrees.  It has filled the Senate with its adherents, it controls the proper branch of the National Legislature by cunningly filling the Speaker’s chair with its representatives, and it has not hesitated to tamper with our Court of last resort.  The public domain has been squandered, our coal fields bartered away, our forests denuded, our people impoverished . . . .  The corporation has been placed above the individual and an armed body of cruel mercenaries permitted, in times of public peril, to discharge police duties which clearly belong to the State.

The slave holding aristocracy, restricted both as to locality and influence, was destroyed by the war only to be succeeded by an infinitely more dangerous and powerful aristocracy of wealth, which now pervades every State and aspires to universal domain.

Many Senators are annually retained by corporations and other moneyed interests.  Such things are incompatible with the faithful discharge of public duty.  There is not a single great leader in the Senate of today, not one who is abreast of the times, or who can be truthfully said to be the exponent of American civilization or the active champion of the reforms made necessary by the growth and changed relations of a century, and which are now struggling for recognition.

 

We are at the dawn of the golden age of popular power.  We have unshaken faith in the integrity and final triumph of the people.  We have challenged the adversary to battle and our bugles have sounded the march.  It is glorious to live in this age, and to be permitted to take part in this heroic combat is the greatest honor that can be conferred upon mortals.  It is an opportunity for every man, however humble, to strike a blow that will permanently benefit his race and make the world better for his having lived.  Throughout all history we have had ample evidence that the new world is the theater upon which the great struggle for the rights of man is to be made, and the righteous movement now in progress should again forcibly remind us of our enviable mission, under Providence, among the nations of the earth.

 

Some months later, Asa prepared a lecture at the University in which he documented some of the more grievous abuses in corporate America.  The lecture was enthusiastically received by faculty and students, and became known in after-years as “The Indictment.”  Significant passages were later caused to be read in the Congressional Record by the young congressman from Nebraska, William Jennings Bryan.  Asa began speaking, itemizing in detail the roster of abuse:

 

Ladies and gentlemen: You have honored me by your attendance this evening.  But more importantly, you have shown your concern relative to present conditions in our country.  You demonstrate that, as citizens of a great republic, you feel the righteous call to place yourselves on the line in the interest of reform.

 

First, corporations and trusts.  The Standard Oil Company was chartered in 1870 with a capitalization of one million dollars.  It soon dominated the American oil business.  Its president claimed that this was accomplished “through the merits and cheapness of its products . . .” by “finding, securing, and utilizing the best and cheapest methods of manufacture.”  But, in reality, it secured control of the industry by means of unfair trade methods.  Among these were: rebates by the railroads with whom the company formed alliances; bribery, blackmail, and, when these failed, physical violence; purchase of legislators, officials, and judges, so that those whose duty it is to be faithful to the public trust would instead shut their eyes to those practices that manifestly transgress the law and violate the public good.

In 1882 the trust superseded the corporation.  The trust, invented by a Standard Oil Company lawyer, was a device by which affiliated companies handed over their securities to be administered by a board of trustees.  The first such trust was the Standard Oil Trust, which controlled 90 percent of the refineries and pipe lines in the United States.

A fledgling oil company in Buffalo, New York, was visited by a representative of the Standard Oil Trust.  “It will be only a matter of days,” he said to one of the owners, “with the Buffalo institution at the furthest.  We will crush them out, and you will lose what little you have got.”  Giving in to the solicitations of the trust advocate, the two men consulted a lawyer to determine whether the Buffalo works could be destroyed with impunity.  In other words, the lawyer was asked to find out just how much crime the two could commit!  Some days later, the co-owner, who was urged to break his contract with the company, weighted down the safety valve of the still with a heavy iron and packed it with plaster of paris, so that when the still was fired it would explode.

 

 

Second, transportation.  In 1872 the Southern Improvement Company was formed to act as an agent of the oil refiners in Cleveland, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia.  The largest share of stock was owned by Standard Oil.  Its purpose was to control the major railroads carrying oil from the refineries in the interest of eliminating competition.  The SIC functioned as an “evener” among the lines, that is, it apportioned the oil traffic among the railroads.  For this service to the railroads, the company received the following considerations: it received preferential rates and rebates on its own shipments; it received copies of bills of shipment made by competing companies; it received a portion of freight rates paid by those competing companies; and it received the consent of the railroads to raise or lower rates upon request of the company.

Railroad practices were especially injurious to the farmers.  There was collusion between the railroads and the elevator companies.  They united to enforce a uniform price for wheat.  The price was fixed much lower than it should be.  The railroads adjusted their price to the artificial list price.  The elevator companies instructed wheat buyers as to the price to be paid wheat growers.  It was thus possible for the elevators to purchase wheat at unreasonably low prices and hold it until prices increased.  Eastern manufacturing was, meanwhile, protected by the high tariff, which forced the farmer to pay exorbitantly high prices for machinery and daily necessities.  The banks refused to lend farmers money on their crops, but charged high interest rates on mortgages.  The rise in the value of money after the Civil War increased the farmer’s indebtedness.

In order to alleviate their depressed condition, the farmers initiated the Grange, and later, the Alliance movements.  While the Grange was a social movement, it ventured into politics and industry.  It brought legislation in several border and western states that gave relief from railway and warehouse abuses.  It established co-operative enterprises‑-stores, warehouses, creameries, and elevators.  It operated plants for the manufacturing of farm machines.

 

Third, finance and tariff.  During the Civil War the government resorted to the protective tariff, in order to protect industry in its task of supplying the materials necessary to the prosecution of the war.  It issued paper currency, the “Greenbacks,” in order to create an adequate money supply.  From these incentives, eastern industry grew powerful and wealthy.

I was with President Lincoln when he said prophetically, “Finances will rule the country for the next fifty years”.  That was one of his last utterances, spoken three days before he was killed.

No truer words were ever spoken.  The tariff remained high, not for purposes of revenue, but at the insistence of an industry that had purchased the acquiescence of the three branches of the federal government.  Conservative business interests pressured the government to retire legal tender notes, resume specie payments on government obligations, and to refund the national debt on a gold basis.  The nation’s money supply shrank and therefore became dear.  Prices fell drastically while the public debt increased vastly.  The farmer’s condition was aggravated immeasurably, as it now took more farm products to purchase a dollar.  As a result, the Greenback and Silver moments gained in popularity, with their demand for an adequate and flexible monetary supply.

 

Fourth, governmental complicity.  After the Civil War, the Republican party, and through it the government, succumbed to the wishes of big business.  All of these sinister practices that I have noted in this address could not have occurred without the consent of the national government.  “The Crime of ’73,” the coinage act that demonetized silver, was a scurrilous legislative act at the behest of the gold barons.  The decision of our highest court that, under the due process clause of the 14th amendment, gave corporations the status of individual persons but conferred upon those combinations of wealth the legal authority to annul the constitutional rights of citizens.  It legitimated the assertion of the president of Standard Oil, when he proclaimed, “The day of combination is here to stay.  Individualism is gone, never to return.”  Executive support of the legislature and the courts has tightened the grip in which the malefactors of great wealth hold the country.

 

And, finally, Dives and Lazarus.  At Kansas City, in the midst of the mortgage-ridden and debt-cursed West, the American Banker’s Association held a banquet.  The Kansas City Times described the occasion:

 

 

No expense will be spared to make the affair a grand success, even aside from the menu.  The banquet will be given in the Priests of Pallas’ Temple, at Seventh and Lydia.  It will be necessary to build and furnish an annex, where the cooking can be done for 1,500 covers.  The preparations seem to take into contemplation a great flow of wine, as there will be six thousand wine glasses and about forty wine servers.  There will be in all nearly three hundred waiters.  It is estimated that the entire cost of the banquet will be from $15,000 to $20,000.

 

Contrast this, if you will, to the condition of a poor woman in a New York City tenement house:

 

This poor woman supports her husband, her two children and herself by making pants at twelve cents a pair.  No rest, no surcease, a perpetual grind from early dawn, often till far in the night; and what is more appalling, outraged nature has rebelled; the long months of semi-starvation and lack of sleep have brought on rheumatism, which has settled in the joints of her fingers, so that every stitch means a throb of pain. . . .  this poor woman struggles bravely, confronted by a nameless dread of impending misfortune.  Eviction, sickness, starvation‑-such are the ever present spectres, while every year marks the steady encroachment of disease, and the lowering of the register of vitality.  Moreover, from the window of her soul falls the light of no star athwart the pathway of life.

 

I ask you, my friends, can our democracy survive with such disparate conditions that divide our people?  I say that it cannot.  The corporate powers of America claim that they are sanctioned by Natural Law.  Is this the Natural Law?  Does the Natural Law sanction corporate might that snatches from the people their unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?  If the Natural Law, as the Darwinians argue, is the ruthless domination of aggregate power over the defenseless individual, over the plain people, over the poor and struggling, I stand before you this night to say that there is a higher law.  It is the Divine Ordinance that enshrines each person with the dignity of sonship and bestows upon him or her a worth that must not be desecrated by the machinations of greed and exploitation.

I was with our great, beloved President at the field of Gettysburg.  There he spoke eloquently of “a new birth of freedom.”  We meet now at another field of battle.  We must engage in a great fight for political and social reform that will bring, once again, “a new birth of freedom.”

 

In July of 1892, Asa was a delegate from Oregon to the convention of the Populist Party held in Omaha, Nebraska.  He served on the Platform Committee, helping to write what became known as “The Omaha Platform,” a platform that was to influence subsequent political conventions:

 

We demand‑-

First, Finance.  A national currency, safe, sound and flexible, issued by the general government only, a full legal tender for all debts, public and private, and that, without the use of banking corporations, a just, equitable, and efficient means of distribution direct to the people, at a tax not to exceed two per cent annum, to be provided as set forth in the sub-treasury plan of the Farmer’s Alliance, or a better system; also, by payments in discharge of its obligations for public improvements.

(a)  We demand free and unlimited coinage of silver and gold at the present legal ratio of 16 to 1.

 

(b)  We demand that the amount of circulating medium be speedily increased to not less than $50 per capita.

(c)  We demand a graduated income tax.

(d)  We believe that the money of the country should be kept as much as possible in the hands of the people, and hence we demand that all state and national revenues shall be limited to the necessary expenses of the government economically and honestly administered.

(e)  We demand that postal savings banks be established by the government for the safe deposit of the earnings of the people and to facilitate exchange.

Second, Transportation.  Transportation being a means of exchange and a public necessity, the government should own and operate the railroads in the interest of the people.

(a)  The telegraph and the telephone, like the post-office system, being a necessity for the transmission of news, should be owned and operated by the government in the interest of the people.

Third, Land.  The land, including all natural resources of wealth, is the heritage of the people, and should not be monopolized for speculative purposes, and alien ownership of land should be prohibited.  All land now held by railroads and other corporations in excess of their actual needs, and all lands now owned by aliens, should be reclaimed by the government and held for actual settlers only.

 

The party thus inscribed on its standards three demands: financial relief, government ownership of railroads, and land reform.  General Weaver was nominated to carry the ticket.

 

Asa came, after agonizing thought, to the decision to join the reform wing of the Democratic party.  He believed that, should that wing capture the party, a major party would have a better chance to carry out the needed reforms.

 

In July of 1896, the Democratic party held its nominating convention in Chicago, Illinois.  Again, as he had done four years earlier, Asa travelled east as a delegate from Oregon, this time, however, as a Democrat.  He held true, however, to his populist convictions, ready to support the liberal wing of the party.

 

When they convened in Chicago, the Democrats were in disarray.  Two years previously, a conference of silver Democrats was held at Omaha.  In the spring of 1896, the silver Democrats of Nebraska selected a slate of delegates to the national convention in Chicago.  The battle lines were thus firmly fixed.

 

The silver Democrats scored two important victories in the early hours of the national convention.  They picked their own temporary chairman, ignoring the candidate chosen by the Democratic National Committee.  They elicited sufficient support to unseat the Nebraska gold delegation and give their places to the silver men, among whom was William Jennings Bryan.

 

With Bryan, Asa served on the Platform Committee.  The committee split on the money issue, and split so severely that compromise was impossible.  The question was then referred to the convention.  Advocates of the gold position were the first to present their case to the convention.  Bryan was scheduled to give the closing speech in support of the silver platform as drafted by the majority of the Platform Committee.

 

 

Asa, who sat near the platform, watched anxiously as the young Nebraskan made his way nervously down the isle.  The audience saw a tall mournful man in a long black coat and white tie.  His black hair, just beginning to recede at the forehead, covered the tips of his ears and flowed thickly over the back of his head.  He had a square chin, a broad, tight-lipped mouth, and a prominent nose.  His keen dark eyes flashed forth from beneath heavy brows.  He was a commanding figure, a champion ready to do battle.  As he ascended the platform, a great shout filled the large hall in which the delegates were assembled.  Even before he spoke, the crowd, gazing upon the young warrior of only thirty-six, sensed that a new leader had been found.  His opening words, spoken clearly and melodically, silenced the vast throng.  His tone was dignified, but impassioned:

 

It would be presumptuous, indeed, to present myself against the distinguished gentlemen to whom you have listened if this were a mere measuring of abilities; but this is not a contest between persons.  The humblest citizen in all the land, when clad in the armor of a righteous cause, is stronger than all the hosts of error.  I come to speak to you in defense of a cause as holy as the cause of liberty‑-the cause of humanity.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When you [the gold delegates] come before us and tell us that we are about to disturb your business interests, we reply that you have disturbed our business interests by your course.

We say to you that you have made the definition of a business man too limited in its application.  The man who is employed for wages is as much a business man as his employer.  The attorney in a country town is as much a business man as the corporation counsel in a great metropolis.  The merchant at the crossroads store is as much a business man as the merchant of New York.  The farmer who goes forth in the morning and toils all day‑-who begins in the spring and toils all summer‑-and who, by the application of brain and muscle to the natural resources of the country, creates wealth, is as much a business man as the man who goes upon the board of trade and bets upon the price of grain; the miners who go down a thousand feet into the earth, or climb two thousand feet upon the cliffs, and bring forth from their hiding places the precious metals to be poured into the channels of trade, are as much business men as the few financial magnates who in the back room, corner the money of the world.  We come to speak for this broader class of business men. . . .  We have petitioned, and our petitions have been scorned; we have entreated and our entreaties have been disregarded; we have begged, and they have mocked when our calamity came.  We beg no longer; we entreat no more; we petition no more.  We defy them.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .                You come to us and tell us that the great cities are in favor of the gold standard.  We reply that the great cities rest upon our broad and fertile prairies.  Burn down your cities and leave our farms, and your cities will spring up again as if by magic; but destroy our farms, and the grass will grow in the streets of every city in the country. . . .  Having behind us the producing masses of this nation and the world, the laboring interests, and the toilers everywhere, we will answer their demand for a gold standard by saying to them: You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns‑-you shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold!

 

 

“You’ve certainly had an exciting and meaningful political career, Asa,” Hanna remarked.  “I should think that it gives you, along with your teaching, a sense of fulfillment.”

 

“Yes, it does.  I’ve been fortunate to be able to make some contribution, I believe, to the country during these post-war days.”

 

 

“By a quirk of fate,” George said, “we now have a President whose policy it is to further the work of political and social reform.  How the back-room boys of the old guard must have felt when they realized that the man whom they intended to neutralize by diverting him to the vice-presidency was now, due to McKinley’s assassination, the chief magistrate!”

 

“Roosevelt is, indeed,” Asa responded, “carrying out many of the reform ideas of the Populist and Democratic persuasions, as effective enforcement of anti-trust laws and federal regulation of corporations engaged in interstate business.  He has also, recently, come out for federal regulation of railways.  Our work has borne fruit.”

 

“Yet, as I see it,” Lewis added, “there is much to be done.  Such reforms as the direct election of senators, the graduated income tax, a federal reserve system, a federal trade commission, laws prohibiting child-labor, and women’s suffrage await enactment.”

 

“But they will come,” Asa assured the group.  “Bryan may yet become the President.  In any event, I think that he will remain the dominant figure in the Democratic party and influence its direction.  I’ve read some things written by the President of Princeton University, Woodrow Wilson‑-particularly his Congressional Government‑-and I believe that he is someone that bears watching.”

 

“I so vividly recall,” Marilla said, “our first Christmas gathering after the war.  I remember Father’s speaking about the meaning of the war.  He talked about ‘the dark valley of shadows’ through which we struggled during the war.  The war finally means, he said, that through the people’s suffering and courage to save the Union we have been lead on an upward path of nobility to ‘the gates of light,’ beyond which is the ‘sunlit kingdom of love, where mercy and justice, freedom and peace reign supreme.’  I shall never forget those lovely words.”

 

“It is all so true,” Asa replied.  “We conquered in war, but we failed to conquer in peace.  We realized our hopes of a restored Union, but we did not open those gates that beckoned us onward to a purified Union.”

 

“We have been remiss as a nation, I’m persuaded of that,” Lewis added.  “And on two counts: the Negro was not lifted from his servitude, and the people were not given the measure of equity and justice due them.  These, unfortunately, are the sad legacies of the war.”

 

Christmas Day, 1905, was fast drawing to a close.  The family of brothers and sisters and their spouses, reunited, as they knew, for the last time on earth, left the warm parlor and walked outdoors.  The couples walked, hand in hand, down the lane toward the main road.  They soon turned and retraced their steps toward the house.

 

The great trees of oak and maple bordered the lane on both sides.  Not far from the front porch were two trees of oak, their high branches intertwined, forming an arch.

 

“Dad and Mother planted these trees soon after the war,” Eliza Ann explained.  “It is as if they are still with us, united in their bond of affection.”

 

 

“Perhaps, after all,” Asa said, “the old myth is true.  Remember the story that Father read to us when we were children.  The ancient god, Zeus, was weary after travelling all day.  He came to a little hut, in which two elderly people, a man and his wife, lived.  They gave of their little and afforded the god with hospitality.  Upon leaving the following morning, he revealed himself and offered to give them anything they wished.  They wished, they replied, that they might be together forever.  And the god transformed them into two trees, standing close together by the door.”

 

Across the frozen river, touching the highest peaks, the sun sent flashing rays of light, sculptured columns of silver brilliance, earthward.  A vast sinuous veil of light-mist, rose and gold colored, receded into the farthest reaches of the heavens.

 

“Ah,” exclaimed Eunice softly, her gaze following the receding light, “the gates of light, the City of Light.”

 

In the gloaming of earth’s sunset, they saw, beyond the farther shore, the gates of that city in which the world’s life is made forever secure, and heard the echoes of ages long past:

 

Of Dante:

 

It seemed to me that a cloud covered us, shining, dense, solid, and smooth, like a diamond that is smitten by the sun; the eternal pearl received us into itself, as water receives a ray of light and remains unbroken.

 

Of Mica:

 

“. . . thou hast guided them in thy

strength unto thy holy habitation.”