Well, my children, we began to know, then, what had happened. Oh, it was a wonderful thing to see and feel—the love of millions! The railroad—why, it was a way of sorrow sprinkled with tears. North to Albany and west to Springfield the people stood deep on either side of the long ironway. I saw them waiting patiently in sleet and rain, some weeping, some kneeling as we passed, thinking, no doubt, that he they loved was among us.
We left the pilot-engine in Philadelphia and hurried to a city on the Erie road, where we had work to do. We reached Albany some days later, about an hour ahead of the funeral train. There the beloved President was to be taken from the train and borne to the State-House, so that those of the north country might have a look at him. We waited among tens of thousands gathered in the streets, and the train came at midnight. I shall never forget the hush that fell upon all as the body passed in the darkness, and the low, tremulous murmur of the crowd. It was like the sound of a great bass string when it is lightly touched—it was the note of a people's sorrow. Slowly, silently, we made our way to the State-House. All about us men and women were sobbing, and we said not a word to each other.
For a moment my tears blinded me at the bier, for there by the coffin-head stood Pearl, in the uniform of a sergeant, with three medals on his blue cape. A squad of veterans walled the passage. Pearl stood calm and erect, with strange authority in his scarred face. He was the soldier again. A little ahead of me, as I walked in line, were Jo and Colonel Busby. I saw the Colonel seize the hand of Pearl and speak to him, but only a word. I did my best to gain the side of Jo, and failed—there were so many between us. Soon I had lost sight of them in the crowd and the darkness beyond the open doors. It would all have been different maybe—all in these latter years of our history—but for those twenty feet or so that lay between us that night. Just that little glimpse of her face, ennobled by our common sorrow, revived my love of her, and then I knew that even if I lost her I should never lose that. I hoped that we should find them next day, and so contented myself.
McCarthy and I walked to our inn together, and talked of the wonderful things we had seen and of the great captain of the people. We had read many columns in the press which had told of the gentleness of his heart and of his simplicity, which had amounted to uncouthness in the view of some.
“The outside of a man isn't of so much importance, after all,” said my friend, as we were going to bed. “The gentleman is a lover of men, and seeks not to charm but only to serve them. And when he passes away it is as if there were some one dead in every house that knew him. Let us pray God to help us.”
We knelt by our beds in silence, and so ended one of the saddest days in my history.
Next morning I tried to find the Colonel and Jo, but with no success. I found Pearl, soon after dinner, sitting on the steps of an old church. His head rested on his hands; his cheeks were tear-stained.
“Did you know Mr. Lincoln?” I asked.
“Yes,” said he.
“Tell me about him,” I said, as I sat down by my friend.