When he fell, that body of traitors which had assumed to be a Government had fled, one scarcely knew whither, with whatever of ill-gotten gains their greedy hands could grasp—their main army captive, the residue of their military force on the point of surrendering. From what had been their capital, in the mansion appropriated to the special use of the chiefest among the conspirators, he had been permitted to send words of greeting to the nation.
When he fell, treason throughout the land lay gasping, dying.
It needed not that dismal, dreary, mid-April day to intensify the sorrow. As on the wings of lightning the news sped through the land—“the President is Shot”—“is dying”—“is dead”—men knew scarcely how to credit the tale. When the fearful certainty came home to each, strong men bowed themselves and wept—maid and matron joined in the plaint. With no extraneous prompting, with no impulse save that of the heart alone, the common grief took on a common garb. Houses were draped—the flag of our country hung pensive at half-mast—portraitures of the loved dead were found on all.
And dreary as was the day when first the tidings swept through the country, patriot hearts were drearier still. It was past analysis. It was as if chaos and dread night had come again.
Meanwhile the honored dead lay in state in the country’s capitol.
On that dreamy, hazy nineteenth of April—suggesting, were it not for the early green leaves, the fresh springing grass, the glad spring caroling of birds, “that sweet autumnal summer which the Indian loved so well”—on that day when sleep wooed one even in the early morn, his obsequies were celebrated in the country’s metropolis.
And throughout the land, minute guns were fired, bells tolled, business suspended, and the thoughtful betook themselves to prayer, if so be that what verily seemed a curse might pass from us.
Thence the funeral cortege moved to the final resting-place—the remains of a darling son, earlier called, accompanying those of the father—by the route the President had taken when first he had been summoned to the chair of State. Before half of the mournful task was done, came tidings that the assassin had been sent to his final account by the avenger’s hand, gurgling out, as his worthless life ebbed away, “useless! useless!”
As the sad procession wended its way, where hundreds had gathered in ’61, impelled by mere curiosity or by partisan sympathy, thousands gathered, four years later, through affection, through reverence, through deep, abiding sorrow.
Flowers beautified the lifeless remains—dirges were sung—the people’s great heart broke out into sobs and sighing.