Perley's reminiscences of sixty years in the national metropolis, v. 1-2

by Benjamin Perley Poore

The 13th of April was a day of general rejoicing at the metropolis. The stars and stripes waved over the public and many of the private buildings, business was suspended, and men went about in groups indulging in libations to the return of peace. As night came on the departments and many private houses were illuminated, bonfires blazed in the streets, and fireworks lit up the sky. In the forts and camps around the city blazed huge bonfires, while the heavy siege guns thundered their joyful approval of peace.

It was announced in the newspapers of that day that President Lincoln, accompanied by General Grant, would attend Ford's Theatre the next night. The President did extend an invitation to his victorious commander to accompany him, but General Grant, always adverse to public demonstrations, declined, that he might go at once to Burlington, New Jersey, with Mrs. Grant, to "see the children." The Presidential party consequently was only four in number—President Lincoln, his wife, Miss Harris, and Major Rathbone. Only one of the two stage-boxes which had been decorated for the party was occupied. When the President appeared, about a quarter before nine o'clock, the play was stopped, the orchestra played "Hail to the Chief," and the crowded audience gave a succession of vociferous cheers.

The play proceeded. Mr. Lincoln and his party were in fine spirits, intently watching the performance, when a pistol-shot was heard, and the first impression of every one was that it was fired on the stage. So thought Major Rathbone, until, looking around, he saw smoke and a man with a drawn dagger in his hand. The truth indistinctly flashed into his mind; he arose and seized the unknown man with both hands. A momentary scuffle ensued, in which the assassin made a thrust at the Major, grazing his breast and piercing his left arm near the shoulder. Something seemed to give way about the man's coat collar, and he disappeared. The smoke prevented the Major or Miss Harris from getting a fair view of the fellow, and Mrs. Lincoln did not see him until he leaped out of the box. Her first impression was that it was her husband who leaped out.

Meantime the assassin appeared on the edge of the box, crying "Sic Semper Tyrannis!" and flourishing a dagger, he leaped to the stage. He crossed the stage rapidly, exclaiming, "Revenge!" and, again flourishing his dagger, disappeared, saying "I have done it!" Though quickly pursued, it was too late. Leaving the theatre by a back door, he mounted his horse in waiting there and was gone.

The President was seen to turn in his seat, and persons leaped upon the stage and clambered up to the box. His clothes were stripped from his shoulders but no wound was at first found. He was entirely insensible. Further search revealed the fact that he had been shot in the head, and he was carried to the nearest house, immediately opposite. Mrs. Lincoln, in a frantic condition, was assisted in crossing the street with the President, at the same time uttering heart-rending shrieks. Surgeons were soon in attendance, but it was evident that the wound was mortal.

It was a night of terror. The long roll was beaten in the distant camps, and the soldiers throughout the encircling fortifications stood to their arms; mounted men patrolled the streets in every direction; the tolling of the church-bells fell heavily on the ear and entered deep into all hearts, and it was not only President Lincoln, but it was reported that Mr. Seward and other members of the Cabinet had been assassinated. Mr. Seward was indeed murderously assaulted upon his sick-bed, but he escaped with his life. Amid these terrors the sleepless citizens fell from their heights of joy to the depths of gloom.

With the morning came the President's death at an early hour. As the bells tolled his departure, the bloom of the national colors was shrouded in black, and the weather was cheerless, cold, and damp. If ever nature sympathized with man since the time when the sun was darkened and the dead walked the streets of Jerusalem, it certainly seemed to do so on the memorable 15th of April, which ushered in the saddest news that ever fell upon the ears of the American people.

It was known, beyond a doubt, before Mr. Lincoln breathed his last, that his assassin was John Wilkes Booth, a son of the great tragedian, then twenty-seven years of age. He had played stock parts at Washington and other Southern and Western cities, where he had given unmistakable evidence of genuine dramatic talent. He had, added to his native genius, the advantage of a voice musically full and rich; a face almost classic in outline; features highly intellectual; a piercing, black eye, capable of expressing the fiercest and the tenderest passion and emotion, and a commanding figure and impressive stage address. In his transition from the quiet and reflective passages of a part to fierce and violent outbreaks of passion, his sudden and impetuous manner had in it something of that electrical force and power which made the elder Booth so celebrated, and called up afresh to the memory of men of the preceding generation the presence, voice, and manner of his father. Convivial in his habits, sprightly and genial in conversation, John Wilkes Booth made many friends among the young men of his own age, and he was a favorite among the ladies at the National Hotel, where he boarded.

The funeral honors paid to President Lincoln at Washington, on the 19th of April, were a fitting tribute to the illustrious dead. The dawn that was ushered in by the heavy booms of salutes of minute- guns from the fortifications surrounding the city never broke purer or brighter or clearer than on this morning. The day that followed was the loveliest of the season. The heavens were undimmed by even one passing cloud.

At a very early hour people began to assemble in the vicinity of the Executive Mansion, which was almost entirely draped in crape, as were also the buildings, public and private, in the neighborhood. All over the city public houses and private residences were closed. At twelve o'clock the ceremonies commenced in the East Room, whose ceilings were draped, and whose resplendent mirrors were hung on the borders with emblems of mourning and white drapery, which gave the room a dim light that was adapted to the solemnity of the mournful scene. All that remained of Abraham Lincoln, sixteenth President of the United States, lay on the grand and gloomy catafalque, which was relieved, however, by choice flowers.