This was on the morning of Wednesday, in November, the day following the national election in the year 1860.  News traveled more slowly then, but we in our valley might expect word from Washington by noon of that day.  If Lincoln won, then the South would secede.  Two nations would inevitably be formed, and if necessary, issue would be joined between them as soon as the leaders could formulate their plans for war.  This much was generally conceded; and it was conceded also that the South would start in, if war should come, with an army well supplied with munitions of war and led by the ablest men who ever served under the old flag—­men such as Lee, Jackson, Early, Smith, Stuart—­scores and hundreds trained in arms at West Point or at the Virginia Military Institute at Lexington—­men who would be loyal to their States and to the South at any cost.

Our State was divided, our valley especially so, peace sentiment there being strong.  The entire country was a magazine needing but a spark to cause explosion.  It was conceded that by noon we should know whether or not this explosion was to come.  Few of us there, whether Unionists or not, had much better than contempt for the uncouth man from the West, Lincoln, that most pathetic figure of our history, later loved by North and South alike as greatest of our great men.  We did not know him in our valley.  All of us there, Unionists or Secessionists, for peace or for war, dreaded to hear of his election.

Colonel Sheraton met me at the door, his face flushed, his brow frowning.  He was all politics.  “Have you any news?” he demanded.  “Have you heard from Leesburg, Washington?”

“Not as yet,” I answered, “but there should be messages from Leesburg within the next few hours.”  We had no telegraph in our valley at that time.

“I have arranged with the postmaster to let us all know up here, the instant he gets word,” said Sheraton.  “If that black abolitionist, Lincoln, wins, they’re going to fire one anvil shot in the street, and we can hear it up this valley this far.  If the South wins, then two anvils, as fast as they can load.  So, Mr. Cowles, if we hear a single shot, it is war—­war, I tell you!

“But come in,” he added hastily.  “I keep you waiting.  I am glad to see you this morning, sir.  From my daughter I learn that you have returned from a somewhat successful journey—­that matters seem to mend for you.  We are all pleased to learn it.  I offer you my hand, sir.  My daughter has advised me of her decision and your own.  Your conduct throughout, Mr. Cowles, has been most manly, quite above reproach.  I could want no better son to join my family.”  His words, spoken in ignorance, cut me unbearably.

“Colonel Sheraton,” I said to him, “there is but one way for a man to ride, and that is straight.  I say to you; my conduct has not been in the least above reproach, and your daughter has not told you all that she ought to have told.”