Produced by Kathy H., David Moynihan, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE LIFE, CRIME, AND CAPTURE
OF
JOHN WILKES BOOTH,
WITH A FULL SKETCH OF THE
Conspiracy of which he was the Leader,
AND THE
PURSUIT, TRIAL AND EXECUTION OF HIS ACCOMPLICES.
BY GEORGE ALFRED TOWNSEND,
A SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.
[Illustration: THE LIFE, CRIME, AND CAPTURE OF John Wilkes Booth AND THE
PURSUIT, TRIAL AND EXECUTION OF HIS ACCOMPLICES.]
EXPLANATORY.
One year ago the writer of the letters which follow, visited the Battle
Field of Waterloo. In looking over many relics of the combat preserved
in the Museum there, he was particularly interested in the files of
journals contemporary with the action. These contained the Duke of
Wellington's first despatch announcing the victory, the reports of the
subordinate commanders, and the current gossip as to the episodes and
hazards of the day.
The time will come when remarkable incidents of these our times will be
a staple of as great curiosity as the issue of Waterloo. It is an
incident without a precedent on this side of the globe, and never to be
repeated.
Assassination has made its last effort to become indigenous here. The
public sentiment of Loyalist and Rebel has denounced it: the world has
remarked it with uplifted hands and words of execration. Therefore, as
long as history shall hold good, the murder of the President will be a
theme for poesy, romance and tragedy. We who live in this consecrated
time keep the sacred souvenirs of Mr. Lincoln's death in our possession;
and the best of these are the news letters descriptive of his
apotheosis, and the fate of the conspirators who slew him.
I represented the _World_ newspaper at Washington during the whole of
those exciting weeks, and wrote their occurrences fresh from the mouths
of the actors. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865,
By DICK & FITZGERALD,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
PREFATORY.
It has seemed fitting to Messrs. DICK & FITZGERALD to reproduce the
_World_ letters, as a keepsake for the many who received them kindly.
The Sketches appended were conscientiously written, and whatever
embellishments they may seem to have grew out of the stirring
events,--not out of my fancy.
Subsequent investigation has confirmed the veracity even of their
speculations. I have arranged them, but have not altered them; if they
represent nothing else, they do carry with them the fever and spirit of
the time. But they do not assume to be literal history: We live too
close to the events related to decide positively upon them. As a
brochure of the day,--nothing more,--I give these Sketches of a
Correspondent to the public.
G. A. T.
THE LIFE, CRIME, AND CAPTURE
OF
JOHN WILKES BOOTH.
LETTER I.
THE MURDER.
Washington, April 17.
Some very deliberate and extraordinary movements were made by a handsome
and extremely well-dressed young man in the city of Washington last
Friday. At about half-past eleven o'clock A. M., this person, whose name
is J. Wilkes Booth, by profession an actor, and recently engaged in oil
speculations, sauntered into Ford's Theater, on Tenth, between E and F
streets, and exchanged greetings with the man at the box-office. In the
conversation which ensued, the ticket agent informed Booth that a box
was taken for Mr. Lincoln and General Grant, who were expected to visit
the theater, and contribute to the benefit of Miss Laura Keene, and
satisfy the curiosity of a large audience. Mr. Booth went away with a
jest, and a lightly-spoken "Good afternoon." Strolling down to
Pumphreys' stable, on C street, in the rear of the National Hotel, he
engaged a saddle horse, a high-strung, fast, beautiful bay mare, telling
Mr. Pumphreys that he should call for her in the middle of the
afternoon.
From here he went to the Kirkwood Hotel, on the corner of Pennsylvania
avenue and Twelfth street, where, calling for a card and a sheet of
notepaper, he sat down and wrote upon the first as follows:
_For Mr. Andrew Johnson_:--
I don't wish to disturb you; are you at home?
J. W. Booth.
To this message, which was sent up by the obliging clerk, Mr. Johnson
responded that he was very busily engaged. Mr. Booth smiled, and turning
to his sheet of note-paper, wrote on it. The fact, if fact it is, that
he had been disappointed in not obtaining an examination of the
Vice-President's apartment and a knowledge of the Vice-President's
probable whereabouts the ensuing evening, in no way affected his
composure. The note, the contents of which are unknown, was signed and
sealed within a few moments. Booth arose, bowed to an acquaintance, and
passed into the street. His elegant person was seen on the avenue a few
minutes, and was withdrawn into the Metropolitan Hotel.
At 4 P. M., he again appeared at Pumphreys' livery stable, mounted the
mare he had engaged, rode leisurely up F street, turned into an alley
between Ninth And Tenth streets, and thence into an alley reloading to
the rear of Ford's Theater, which fronts on Tenth street, between E and
F streets. Here he alighted and deposited the mare in a small stable off
the alley, which he had hired sometime before for the accommodation of a
saddle-horse which he had recently sold. Mr. Booth soon afterward
retired from the stable, and is supposed to have refreshed himself at a
neighboring bar-room.
At 8 o'clock the same evening, President Lincoln and Speaker Colfax sat
together in a private room at the White House, pleasantly conversing.
General Grant, with whom the President had engaged to attend Ford's
Theater that evening, had left with his wife for Burlington, New-Jersey,
in the 6 o'clock train. After this departure Mr. Lincoln rather
reluctantly determined to keep his part of the engagement, rather than
to disappoint his friends and the audience. Mrs. Lincoln, entering the
room and turning to Mr. Colfax, said, in a half laughing, half serious
way, "Well, Mr. Lincoln, are you going to the theater with me or not?"
"I suppose I shall have to go, Colfax," said the President, and the
Speaker took his leave in company with Major Rathbone, of the
Provost-Marshal General's office, who escorted Miss Harris, daughter of
Senator Harris, of New York. Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln reached Ford's Theater
at twenty minutes before 9 o'clock.
The house was filled in every part with a large and brilliantly attired
audience. As the presidential party ascended the stairs, and passed
behind the dress circle to the entrance of the private box reserved for
them, the whole assemblage, having in mind the recent Union victories,
arose, cheered, waving hats and handkerchiefs, and manifesting every
other accustomed sign of enthusiasm. The President, last to enter the
box, turned before doing so, and bowed a courteous acknowledgment of his
reception--At the moment of the President's arrival, Mr. Hawks, one of
the actors, performing the well-known part of Dundreary, had exclaimed:
"This reminds me of a story, as Mr. Lincoln says." The audience forced
him, after the interruption, to tell the story over again. It evidently
pleased Mr. Lincoln, who turned laughingly to his wife and made a remark
which was not overheard.
[Illustration: Scene of the Assassination.
_X_ President's Position. _A_ The course of the Assassin after the
Murder. _BB_ Movable partition not in use on the night of the
Assassination. _D_ Door through which the Assassin looked in taking aim.
_C_ Closed door through which pistol ball was fired.]
The box in which the President sat consisted of two boxes turned into
one, the middle partition being removed, as on all occasions when a
state party visited the theater. The box was on a level with the dress
circle; about twelve feet above the stage. There were two entrances--the
door nearest to the wall having been closed and locked; the door nearest
the balustrades of the dress circle, and at right angles with it, being
open and left open, after the visitors had entered. The interior was
carpeted, lined with crimson paper, and furnished with a sofa covered
with crimson velvet, three arm chairs similarly covered, and six
cane-bottomed chairs. Festoons of flags hung before the front of the box
against a background of lace.
President Lincoln took one of the arm-chairs and seated himself in the
front of the box, in the angle nearest the audience, where, partially
screened from observation, he had the best view of what was transpiring
on the stage. Mrs. Lincoln sat next to him, and Miss Harris in the
opposite angle nearest the stage. Major Rathbone sat just behind Mrs.
Lincoln and Miss Harris. These four were the only persons in the box.
The play proceeded, although "Our American Cousin," without Mr. Sothern,
has, since that gentleman's departure from this country, been justly
esteemed a very dull affair. The audience at Ford's, including Mrs.
Lincoln, seemed to enjoy it very much. The worthy wife of the President
leaned forward, her hand upon her husband's knee, watching every scene
in the drama with amused attention. Even across the President's face at
intervals swept a smile, robbing it of its habitual sadness.
About the beginning of the second act, the mare, standing in the stable
in the rear of the theater, was disturbed in the midst of her meal by
the entrance of the young man who had quitted her in the afternoon. It
is presumed that she was saddled and bridled with exquisite care.
Having completed these preparations, Mr. Booth entered the theater by
the stage door; summoned one of the scene shifters, Mr. John Spangler,
emerged through the same door with that individual, leaving the door
open, and left the mare in his hands to be held until he (Booth) should
return. Booth who was even more fashionably and richly dressed than
usual, walked thence around to the front of the theater, and went in.
Ascending to the dress circle, he stood for a little time gazing around
upon the audience and occasionally upon the stage in his usual graceful
manner. He was subsequently observed by Mr. Ford, the proprietor of the
theater, to be slowly elbowing his way through the crowd that packed the
rear of the dress circle toward the right side, at the extremity of
which was the box where Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln and their companions were
seated. Mr. Ford casually noticed this as a slightly extraordinary
symptom of interest on the part of an actor so familiar with the routine
of the theater and the play.
The curtain had arisen on the third act, _Mrs. Mountchessington_ and
_Asa Trenchard_ were exchanging vivacious stupidities, when a young man,
so precisely resembling the one described as J. Wilkes Booth that be is
asserted to be the same, appeared before the open door of the
President's box, and prepared to enter.
The servant who attended Mr. Lincoln said politely, "this is the
President's box, sir, no one is permitted to enter." "I am a senator,"
responded the person, "Mr. Lincoln has sent for me." The attendant gave
way, and the young man passed into the box.
As he appeared at the door, taking a quick, comprehensive glance at the
interior, Major Rathbone arose. "Are you aware, sir," he said,
courteously, "upon whom you are intruding? This is the President's box,
and no one is admitted." The intruder answered not a word. Fastening his
eyes upon Mr. Lincoln, who had half turned his head to ascertain what
caused the disturbance, he stepped quickly back without the door.
Without this door there was an eyehole, bored it is presumed on the
afternoon of the crime, while the theater was deserted by all save a few
mechanics. Glancing through this orifice, John Wilkes Booth espied in a
moment the precise position of the President; he wore upon his wrinkling
face the pleasant embryo of an honest smile, forgetting in the mimic
scene the splendid successes of our arms for which he was responsible,
and the history he had filled so well.
The cheerful interior was lost to J. Wilkes Booth. He did not catch the
spirit of the delighted audience, of the flaming lamps flinging
illumination upon the domestic foreground and the gaily set stage. He
only cast one furtive glance upon the man he was to slay, and thrusting
one hand in his bosom, another in his skirt pocket, drew forth
simultaneously his deadly weapons. His right palm grasped a Derringer
pistol, his left a dirk.
Then, at a stride, he passed the threshold again, levelled his arm at
the President and bent the trigger.
A keen quick report and a puff of white smoke,--a close smell of powder
and the rush of a dark, imperfectly outlined figure,--and the
President's head dropped upon his shoulders: the ball was in his brain.
[Illustration: Map. The Theatre and its Surroundings.
_A_ Public School. _B_ Herndon House. _C_ Only vacant lot communicating
with the Alley. _D_ Only alley outlet to F street. _E_ Bank. _X_
Restaurant. _G_ Newspaper Office. _H_ Model House. _I_ House to which
the President was taken. _K_ Alley through which the Murderer escaped.]
The movements of the assassin were from henceforth quick as the
lightning, he dropped his pistol on the floor, and drawing a
bowie-knife, struck Major Rathbone, who opposed him, ripping through his
coat from the shoulder down, and inflicting a severe flesh wound in his
arm. He leaped then upon the velvet covered balustrade at the front of
the box, between Mrs. Lincoln and Miss Harris, and, parting with both
hands the flags that drooped on either side, dropped to the stage
beneath. Arising and turning full upon the audience, with the knife
lifted in his right hand above his head, he shouted "_Sic, semper
tyrannis_--Virginia is avenged!" Another instant he had fled across the
stage and behind the scenes. Colonel J. B. Stewart, the only person in
the audience who seemed to comprehend the deed he had committed, climbed
from his seat near the orchestra to the stage, and followed close
behind. The assassin was too fleet and too desperate, that fury
incarnate, meeting Mr. Withers, the leader of the orchestra, just behind
the scenes, had stricken him aside with a blow that fortunately was not
a wound; overturning Miss Jenny Gourlay, an actress, who came next in
his path, he gained, without further hindrance, the back door previously
left open at the rear of the theater; rushed through it; leaped upon the
horse held by Mr. Spangler, and without vouchsafing that person a word
of information, rode out through the alley leading into F street, and
thence rapidly away. His horse's hoofs might almost have been heard amid
the silence that for a few seconds dwelt in the interior of the theater.
[Illustration: _A_ Miss Laura Keene's Position. _D_ Movable partition
wall not in place on Friday. _P_ Position of the President. _X_ Flats.
_B_ Dark Passage-way--Position of Sentry. _E_ Exit, or Stage Door. _MM_
Entrance to Box. _CCC_ Entrance to Dress Circle, _H_ Position of Booth's
Horse.]
Then Mrs. Lincoln screamed, Miss Harris cried for water, and the full
ghastly truth broke upon all--"The President is murdered!" The scene
that ensued was as tumultuous and terrible as one of Dante's pictures of
hell. Some women fainted, others uttered piercing shrieks, and cries for
vengeance and unmeaning shouts for help burst from the mouths of men.
Miss Laura Keene, the actress, proved herself in this awful time as
equal to sustain a part in real tragedy as to interpret that of the
stage. Pausing one moment before the footlights to entreat the audience
to be calm, she ascended the stairs in the rear of Mr. Lincoln's box,
entered it, took the dying President's head in her lap, bathed it with
the water she had brought, and endeavoured to force some of the liquid
through the insensible lips. The locality of the wound was at first
supposed to be in the breast. It was not until after the neck and
shoulders had been bared and no mark discovered, that the dress of Miss
Keene, stained with blood, revealed where the ball had penetrated.
This moment gave the most impressive episode in the history of the
Continent.
The Chief Magistrate of thirty, millions of people--beloved, honored,
revered,--lay in the pent up closet of a play-house, dabbling with his
sacred blood the robes of an actress.
As soon as the confusion and crowd was partially overcome, the form of
the President was conveyed from the theater to the residence of Mr.
Peterson, on the opposite side of Tenth street. Here upon a bed, in a
little hastily prepared chamber, it was laid and attended by
Surgeon-General Barnes and other physicians, speedily summoned.
In the meanwhile the news spread through the capital, as if borne on
tongues of flame. Senator Sumner, hearing at his residence, of the
affair took a carriage and drove at a gallop to the White House, when he
heard where it had taken place, to find Robert Lincoln and other members
of the household still unaware of it. Both drove to Ford's Theater, and
were soon at the President's bedside. Secretary Stanton and the other
members of the cabinet were at hand almost as soon. A vast crowd,
surging up Pennsylvania avenue toward Willard's Hotel, cried, "The
President is shot!" "President Lincoln is murdered." Another crowd
sweeping down the avenue met the first with the tidings, "Secretary
Seward has been assassinated in bed." Instantly a wild apprehension of
an organized conspiracy and of other murders took possession of the
people. The shout "to arms!" was mingled with the expressions of sorrow
and rage that everywhere filled the air. "Where is General Grant?" or
"where is Secretary Stanton!" "Where are the rest of the cabinet?" broke
from thousands of lips. A conflagration of fire is not half so terrible
as was the conflagration of passion that rolled through the streets and
houses of Washington on that awful night.
The attempt on the life of Secretary Seward was perhaps as daring, if
not so dramatic, as the assassination of the President. At 9:20 o'clock
a man, tall, athletic, and dressed in light coloured clothes, alighted
from a horse in front of Mr. Seward's residence in Madison place, where
the secretary was lying, very feeble from his recent injuries. The
house, a solid three-story brick building, was formerly the old
Washington Club-house. Leaving his horse standing, the stranger rang at
the door, and informed the servant who admitted him that he desired to
see Mr. Seward. The servant responded that Mr. Seward was very ill, and
that no visitors were admitted. "But I am a messenger from Dr. Verdi,
Mr. Seward's physician; I have a prescription which I must deliver to
him myself." The servant still demurring, the stranger, without further
parley, pushed him aside and ascended the stairs. Moving to the right,
he proceeded towards Mr. Seward's room, and was about to enter it, when
Mr. Frederick Seward appeared from an opposite doorway and demanded his
business. He responded in the same manner as to the servant below, but
being met with a refusal, suddenly closed the controversy by striking
Mr. Seward a severe and perhaps mortal blow across the forehead with the
butt of a pistol. As the first victim fell, Major Seward, another and
younger son of the secretary, emerged from his father's room. Without a
word the man drew a knife and struck the major several blows with it,
rushing into the chamber as he did so; then, after dealing the nurse a
horrible wound across the bowels, he sprang to the bed upon which the
secretary lay, stabbing him once in the face and neck. Mr. Seward arose
convulsively and fell from the bed to the floor. Turning and brandishing
his knife anew, the assassin fled from the room, cleared the prostrate
form of Frederick Seward in the hall, descended the stairs in three
leaps, and was out of the door and upon his horse in an instant. It is
stated by a person who saw him mount that, although he leaped upon his
horse with most unseemly haste, he trotted away around the corner of the
block with circumspect deliberation.
Around both the house on Tenth street and the residence of Secretary
Seward, as the fact of both tragedies became generally known, crowds
soon gathered so vast and tumultuous that military guards scarcely
sufficed to keep them from the doors.
The room to which the President had been conveyed is on the first floor,
at the end of the hall. It is only fifteen feet square, with a Brussels
carpet, papered with brown, and hung with a lithograph of Rosa Bonheur's
"Horse Fair," an engraved copy of Herring's "Village Blacksmith," and
two smaller ones, of "The Stable" and "The Barn Yard," from the same
artist. A table and bureau, spread with crotchet work, eight chairs and
the bed, were all the furniture. Upon this bed, a low walnut
four-poster, lay the dying President; the blood oozing from the
frightful wound in his head and staining the pillow. All that the
medical skill of half a dozen accomplished surgeons could do had been
done to prolong a life evidently ebbing from a mortal hurt.
Secretary Stanton, just arrived from the bedside of Mr. Seward, asked
Surgeon-General Barnes what was Mr. Lincoln's condition. "I fear, Mr.
Stanton, that there is no hope." "O, no, general; no, no;" and the man,
of all others, apparently strange to tears, sank down beside the bed,
the hot, bitter evidences of an awful sorrow trickling through his
fingers to the floor. Senator Sumner sat on the opposite side of the
bed, holding one of the President's hands in his own, and sobbing with
kindred grief. Secretary Welles stood at the foot of the bed, his face
hidden, his frame shaken with emotion. General Halleck, Attorney-General
Speed, Postmaster-General Dennison, M. B. Field, Assistant Secretary of
the Treasury, Judge Otto, General Meigs, and others, visited the chamber
at times, and then retired. Mrs. Lincoln--but there is no need to speak
of her. Mrs. Senator Dixon soon arrived, and remained with her through
the night. All through the night, while the horror-stricken crowds
outside swept and gathered along the streets, while the military and
police were patrolling and weaving a cordon around the city; while men
were arming and asking each other, "What victim next?" while the
telegraph was sending the news from city to city over the continent, and
while the two assassins were speeding unharmed upon fleet horses far
away--his chosen friends watched about the death-bed of the highest of
the nation. Occasionally Dr. Gurley, pastor of the church where Mr.
Lincoln habitually attended, knelt down in prayer. Occasionally Mrs.
Lincoln and her sons, entered, to find no hope and to go back to
ceaseless weeping. Members of the cabinet, senators, representatives,
generals, and others, took turns at the bedside. Chief-Justice Chase
remained until a late hour, and returned in the morning. Secretary
McCulloch remained a constant watcher until 5 A. M. Not a gleam of
consciousness shone across the visage of the President up to his
death--a quiet, peaceful death at last--which came at twenty-two minutes
past seven A. M. Around the bedside at this time were Secretaries
Stanton, Welles, Usher, Attorney-General Speed, Postmaster-General
Dennison, M. B. Field, Assistant Secretary of the Treasury, Judge Otto,
Assistant Secretary of the Interior, General Halleck, General Meigs,
Senator Sumner, F. R. Andrews, of New-York, General Todd, of Dacotah,
John Hay, private secretary, Governor Oglesby, of Illinois, General
Farnsworth, Mrs. and Miss Kenny, Miss Harris, Captain Robert Lincoln,
son of the President, and Drs. E. W. Abbott, R. K. Stone, C. D. Gatch,
Neal Hall, and Leiberman. Rev. Dr. Gurley, after the event, knelt with
all around in prayer, and then, entering the adjoining room where were
gathered Mrs. Lincoln, Captain Robert Lincoln, Mr. John Hay, and others,
prayed again. Soon after 9 o'clock the remains were placed in a
temporary coffin and conveyed to the White House under a small escort.
In Secretary Seward's chamber, a similar although not so solemn a scene
prevailed; between that chamber and the one occupied by President
Lincoln, visitors alternated to and fro through the night. It had been
early ascertained that the wounds of the secretary were not likely to
prove mortal. A wire instrument, to relieve the pain which he suffered
from previous injuries, prevented the knife of the assassin from
striking too deep. Mr. Frederick Seward's injuries were more serious.
His forehead was broken in by the blow from, the pistol, and up to this
hour he has remained perfectly unconscious. The operation of trepanning
the skull has been performed, but little hope is had of his recovery.
Major Seward will get well. Mr. Hansell's condition is somewhat
doubtful.
Secretary Seward, who cannot speak, was not informed of the
assassination of the President, and the injury of his son, until
yesterday. He had been worrying as to why Mr. Lincoln did not visit him.
"Why does'nt the President come to see me?" he asked with his pencil.
"Where is Frederick--what is the matter with him?" Perceiving the
nervous excitement which these doubts occasioned, a consultation was
had, at which it was finally determined that it would be best to let the
secretary know the worst. Secretary Stanton was chosen to tell him.
Sitting down beside Mr. Seward's bed, yesterday afternoon, he therefore
related to him a full account of the whole affair. Mr. Seward was so
surprised and shocked that he raised one hand involuntarily, and
groaned. Such is the condition of affairs at this stage of the terror.
The pursuit of the assassins has commenced; the town is full of wild and
baseless rumors; much that is said is stirring, little is reliable. I
tell it to you as I get it, but fancy is more prolific than truth: be
patient! [Footnote: The facts above had been collected by Mr. Jerome B.
Stillion, before my arrival in Washington: the arrangement of them is my
own.]
LETTER II.
THE OBSEQUIES IN WASHINGTON.
Washington, April 19, (Evening).
The most significant and most creditable celebration ever held in
Washington has just transpired. A good ruler has been followed from his
home to the Capitol by a grand cortege, worthy of the memory and of the
nation's power. As description must do injustice to the extent of the
display, so must criticism fail to sufficiently commend its perfect
tastefulness, Rarely has a Republican assemblage been so orderly. The
funeral of Mr. Lincoln is something to be remembered for a _cycle_. It
caps all eulogy upon his life and services, and was, without exception,
the most representative, spontaneous, and remarkable testimonial ever
rendered to the remains of an American citizen.
The night before the funeral showed the probable character of the
cortege. At Willard's alone four hundred applications by telegraph for
beds were refused. As many as six thousand persons spent Tuesday night
in the streets, in depots and in outbuildings. The population of the
city this morning was not far short of a hundred thousand, and of these
as many at thirty thousand walked in procession with Mr. Lincoln's
ashes.
All orders of folks were at hand. The country adjacent sent in
hay-wagons, donkey-carts, dearborns. All who could slip away from the
army came to town, and every attainable section of the Union forwarded
mourners. At no time in his life had Mr. Lincoln so many to throng about
him as in this hour, when he is powerless to do any one a service. For
once in history, office-seekers were disinterested, and contractors and
hangers-on human. These came, for this time only, to the capital of the
republic without an axe to grind or a curiosity to subserve; respect and
grief were all their motive. This day was shown that the great public
heart beats unselfish and reverent, even after a dynasty of plunder and
war.
The arrangements for the funeral were made by Mr. Harrington,
Assistant-Secretary of the Treasury, who was beset by applicants for
tickets. The number of these were reduced to six hundred, the clergy
getting sixty and the press twenty. I was among the first to pass the
White House guards and enter the building.
Its freestone columns were draped in black, and all the windows were
funereal. The ancient reception-room was half closed, and the famous
East room, which is approached by a spacious hall, had been reserved for
the obsequies. There are none present here but a few silent attendants
of the late owner of the republican palace. Deeply ensconced in the
white satin stuffing of his coffin, the President lies like one asleep.
The broad, high, beautiful room is like the varnished interior of a
vault. The frescoed ceiling wears the national shield, some pointed
vases filled with flowers and fruit, and three emblazonings of gilt
pendant from which are shrouded chandeliers. A purplish gray is the
prevailing tint of the ceiling. The cornice is silver white, set off by
a velvet crimson. The wall paper is gold and red, broken by eight lofty
mirrors, which are chastely margined with black and faced with fleece.
Their imperfect surfaces reflect the lofty catafalque, an open canopy of
solemn alapaca, lined with tasteful satin of creamish lead, looped at
the curving roof and dropping to the four corners in half transparent
tapestry. Beneath the roof, the half light shines upon a stage of fresh
and fragrant flowers, up-bearing a long, high coffin. White lace of pure
silver pendant from the border throws a mild shimmer upon the solid
silver tracery hinges and emblazonings. A cross of lilies stands at the
head, an anchor of roses at the foot. The lid is drawn back to show the
face and bosom, and on the coffin top are heather, precious flowers, and
sprigs of green. This catafalque, or in plain words, this coffin set
upon a platform and canopied, has around it a sufficient space of
Brussels carpet, and on three sides of this there are raised steps
covered with black, on which the honored visitors are to stand.
The fourth side is bare, save of a single row of chairs some twenty in
number, on which the reporters are to sit. The odor of the room is fresh
and healthy; the shade is solemn, without being oppressive. All is rich,
simple, and spacious, and in such sort as any king might wish to lie.
Approach and look at the dead man.
Death has fastened into his frozen face all the character and
idiosyncrasy of life. He has not changed one line of his grave,
grotesque countenance, nor smoothed out a single feature. The hue is
rather bloodless and leaden; but he was alway sallow. The dark eyebrows
seem abruptly arched; the beard, which will grow no more, is shaved
close, save the tuft at the short small chin. The mouth is shut, like
that of one who had put the foot down firm, and so are the eyes, which
look as calm as slumber. The collar is short and awkward, turned over
the stiff elastic cravat, and whatever energy or humor or tender gravity
marked the living face is hardened into its pulseless outline. No corpse
in the world is better prepared according to appearances. The white
satin around it reflects sufficient light upon the face to show us that
death is really there; but there are sweet roses and early magnolias,
and the balmiest of lilies strewn around, as if the flowers had begun to
bloom even upon his coffin. Looking on uninterruptedly! for there is no
pressure, and henceforward the place will be thronged with gazers who
will take from the sight its suggestiveness and respect. Three years
ago, when little Willie Lincoln died, Doctors Brown and Alexander, the
embalmers or injectors, prepared his body so handsomely that the
President had it twice disinterred to look upon it. The same men, in the
same way, have made perpetual these beloved lineaments. There is now no
blood in the body; it was drained by the jugular vein and sacredly
preserved, and through a cutting on the inside of the thigh the empty
blood vessels were charged with a chemical preparation which soon
hardened to the consistence of stone. The long and bony body is now hard
and stiff, so that beyond its present position it cannot be moved any
more than the arms or legs of a statue. It has undergone many changes.
The scalp has been removed, the brain taken out, the chest opened and
the blood emptied. All that we see of Abraham Lincoln, so cunningly
contemplated in this splendid coffin, is a mere shell, an effigy, a
sculpture. He lies in sleep, but it is the sleep of marble. All that
made this flesh vital, sentient, and affectionate is gone forever.
The officers present are Generals Hunter and Dyer and two staff
captains. Hunter, compact and dark and reticent, walks about the empty
chamber in full uniform, his bright buttons and sash and sword
contrasting with his dark blue uniform, gauntlets upon his hands, crape
on his arm and blade, his corded hat in his hands, a paper collar just
apparent above his velvet tips, and now and then he speaks to Captain
Nesmith or Captain Dewes, of General Harding's staff, rather as one who
wishes company than one who has anything to say. His two silver stars
upon his shoulder shine dimly in the draped apartment. He was one of the
first in the war to urge the measures which Mr. Lincoln afterward
adopted. The aids walk to and fro, selected without reference to any
association with the late President. Their clothes are rich, their
swords wear mourning, they go in silence, everything is funereal. In the
deeply-draped mirrors strange mirages are seen, as in the coffin scene
of "Lucretia Borgia," where all the dusky perspectives bear vistas of
gloomy palls. The upholsterers make timid noises of driving nails and
spreading tapestry; but save ourselves and these few watchers and
workers, only the dead is here. The White House, so ill-appreciated in
common times, is seen to be capacious and elegant--no disgrace to the
nation even in the eyes of those foreign folk of rank who shall gather
here directly.
As we sit brooding, with the pall straight before us, the funeral guns
are heard indistinctly booming from the far forts, with the tap of drums
in the serried street without, where troops and citizens are forming for
the grand procession. We see through the window in the beautiful spring
day that the grass is brightly green; and all the trees in blossom, show
us through their archways the bronze and marble statues breaking the
horizon. But there is one at an upper window, seeing all this through
her tears, to whom the beautiful noon, with its wealth of zephyrs and
sweets, can waft no gratulation. The father of her children, the
confidant of her affection and ambition, has passed from life into
immortality, and lies below, dumb, cold murdered. The feeling of
sympathy for Mrs. Lincoln is as wide-spread as the regret for the chief
magistrate. Whatever indiscretions she may have committed in the abrupt
transition from plainness to power are now forgiven and forgotten. She
and her sons are the property of the nation associated with its truest
glories and its worst bereavement. By and by the guests drop in, hat in
hand, wearing upon their sleeves waving crape; and some of them slip up
to the coffin to carry away a last impression of the fading face.
But the first accession of force is that of the clergy, sixty in number.
They are devout looking men, darkly attired, and have come from all the
neighboring cities to represent every denomination. Five years ago these
were wrangling over slavery as a theological question, and at the
beginning of the war it was hard, in many of their bodies, to carry
loyal resolutions, To-day there are here such sincere mourners as Robert
Pattison, of the Methodist church, who passed much of his life among
slaves and masters. He and the rest have come to believe that the
President was wise and right, and follow him to his grave, as the
apostles the interred on calvary. All these retire to the south end of
the room, facing the feet of the corpse, and stand there silently to
wait for the coming of others. Very soon this East room is filled with
the representative intelligence of the entire nation. The governors of
states stand on the dais next to the head of the coffin, with the varied
features of Curtin, Brough, Fenton, Stone, Oglesby and Ingraham. Behind
them are the mayors and councilmen of many towns paying their last
respects to the representative of the source of all municipal freedom.
To their left are the corporate officers of Washington, zealous to make
this day's funeral honors atone for the shame of the assassination. With
these are sprinkled many scarred and worthy soldiers who have borne the
burden of the grand war, and stand before this shape they loved in quiet
civil reverence.
Still further down the steps and closer to the catafalque rest the
familiar faces of many of our greatest generals--the manly features of
Augur, whose blood I have seen trickling forth upon the field of battle;
the open almost, beardless contour of Halleck, who has often talked of
sieges and campaigns with this homely gentleman who is going to the
grave. There are many more bright stars twinkling in contiguous shoulder
bars, but sitting in a chair upon the beflowered carpet is Ulysses
Grant, who has lived a century in the last three weeks and comes to-day
to add the luster of his iron face to this thrilling and saddened
picture. He wears white gloves and sash, and is swarthy, nervous, and
almost tearful, his feet crossed, his square receding head turning now
here now there, his treble constellation blazing upon the left shoulder
only, but hidden on the right, and I seem to read upon his compact
features the indurate and obstinate will to fight, on the line he has
selected, the honor of the country through any peril, as if he had sworn
it by the slain man's bier--his state-fellow, patron, and friend. Here
also is General McCallum, who has seamed the rebellious South with
military roads to send victory along them, and bring back the groaning
and the scarred. These and the rest are grand historic figures, worthy
of all artistic depiction. They have looked so often into the mortar's
mouth, that no bravo's blade can make them wince. Do you see the
thin-haired, conical head of the viking Farragut, close by General
Grant, with many naval heroes close behind, storm-beaten, and every inch
Americans in thought and physiognomy?
What think the foreign ambassadors of such men, in the light of their
own overloaded bodies, where meaningless orders, crosses, and ribbons
shine dimly in the funeral light? These legations number, perhaps, a
hundred men, of all civilized races,--the Sardinian envoy, jetty-eyed,
towering above the rest. But they are still and respectful, gathered
thus by a slain ruler, to see how worthy is the republic he has
preserved. Whatever sympathy these have for our institutions, I think
that in such audience they must have been impressed with the futility of
any thought that either one citizen right or one territorial inch can
ever be torn from the United States. Not to speak disparagingly of these
noble guests, I was struck with the superior facial energy of our own
public servants, who were generally larger, and brighter-faced, born of
that aristocracy which took its patent from Tubal Cain, and Abel the
goatherd, and graduated in Abraham Lincoln. The Haytien minister,
swarthy and fiery-faced, is conspicuous among these.
But nearer down, and just opposite the catafalque so that it is
perpendicular to the direction of vision, stand the central powers of
our government, its President and counsellors. President Johnson is
facing the middle of the coffin upon the lowest step; his hands are
crossed upon his breast, his dark clothing just revealing his plaited
shirt, and upon his full, plethoric, shaven face, broad and severely
compact, two telling gray eyes rest under a thoughtful brow, whose
turning hair is straight and smooth. Beside him are Vice-President
Hamlin, whom he succeeded, and ex-Governor King, his most intimate
friend, who lends to the ruling severity of the place a half Falstaffian
episode. The cabinet are behind, as if arranged for a daguerreotypist,
Stanton, short and quicksilvery, in long goatee and glasses, in stunted
contrast to the tall and snow-tipped shape of Mr. Welles with the rest,
practical and attentive, and at their side is Secretary Chase, high,
dignified, and handsome, with folded arms, listening, but
undemonstrative, a half-foot higher than any spectator, and dividing
with Charles Sumner, who is near by, the preference for manly beauty in
age. With Mr. Chase are other justices of the Supreme Court and to their
left, near the feet of the corpse, are the reverend senators,
representing the oldest and the newest states--splendid faces, a little
worn with early and later toils, backed up by the high, classical
features of Colonel Forney, their secretary. Beyond are the
representatives and leading officials of the various departments, with a
few odd folks like George Francis Train, exquisite as ever, and, for
this time only, with nothing to say.
Close by the corpse sit the relatives of the deceased, plain, honest,
hardy people, typical as much of the simplicity of our institutions as
of Mr. Lincoln's self-made eminence. No blood relatives of Mr. Lincoln
were to be found. It is a singular evidence of the poverty of his
origin, and therefore of his exceeding good report, that, excepting his
immediate family, none answering to his name could be discovered. Mrs.
Lincoln's relatives were present, however, in some force. Dr. Lyman
Beecher Todd, General John B. S. Todd, C. M. Smith, Esq., and Mr. N. W.
Edwards, the late President's brother-in-law, plain, self-made people
were here and were sincerely affected. Captain Robert Lincoln sat during
the services with his face in his handkerchief weeping quietly, and
little Tad his face red and heated, cried as if his heart would break.
Mrs. Lincoln, weak, worn, and nervous, did not enter the East room nor
follow the remains. She was the chief magistrate's lady yesterday;
to-day a widow bearing only an immortal name. Among the neighbors of the
late President, who came from afar to pay respect to his remains, was
one old gentleman who left Richmond on Sunday. I had been upon the boat
with him and heard him in hot wrangle with some officers who advised the
summary execution of all rebel leaders. This the old man opposed, when
the feeling against him became so intense that he was compelled to
retire. He counselled mercy, good faith, and forgiveness. To-day, the
men who had called him a traitor, saw him among the family mourners,
bent with grief. All these are waiting in solemn lines, standing erect,
with a space of several feet between them and the coffin, and there is
no bustle nor unseemly curiosity, not a whisper, not a footfall--only
the collected nation looking with awed hearts upon eminent death.
This scene is historic. I regret that I must tell you of it over a
little wire, for it admits of all exemplification. In this high,
spacious, elegant apartment, laughter and levee, social pleasantry and
refined badinage, had often held their session. Dancing and music had
made those mirrors thrill which now reflect a pall, and where the most
beautiful women of their day had mingled here with men of brilliant
favor, now only a very few, brave enough to look upon death, were
wearing funeral weeds. The pleasant face of Mrs. Kate Sprague looks out
from these; but such scenes gain little additional power by beauty's
presence. And this wonderful relief was carved at one blow by John
Wilkes Booth.
The religious services began at noon. They were remarkable not only for
their association with the national event, but for a tremendous
political energy which they had. While none of the prayers or speeches
exhibited great literary carefulness, or will obtain perpetuity on their
own merits, they were full of feeling and expressed all the intense
concern of the country.
The procession surpassed in sentiment, populousness, and sincere good
feeling, anything of the kind we have had in America. It was several
miles long, and in all its elements was full and tasteful. The scene on
the avenue will be alway remembered as the only occasion on which that
great thoroughfare was a real adornment to the seat of government. In
the tree tops, on the house tops, at all the windows, the silent and
affected crowds clustered beneath half-mast banners and waving crape, to
reverentially uncover as the dark vehicle, bearing its rich
silver-mounted coffin, swept along; mottoes of respect and homage were
on many edifices, and singularly some of them were taken from the play
of Richard III., which was the murderer's favorite part The entire width
of the avenue was swept, from curb to curb, by the deep lines.
The chief excellence of this procession was its representative nature.
All classes, localities and trades were out. As the troops in broad,
straight columns, with reversed muskets, moved to solemn marches, all
the guns on the fortifications on the surrounding hills discharged
hoarse salutes--guns which the arbiter of war whom they were to honor
could hear no longer. Every business place was closed. Sabermen swept
the street of footmen and horsemen. The carriages drove two abreast.
Not less than five thousand officers, of every rank, marched abreast
with the cortege. They were noble looking men with intelligent faces,
and represented the sinews of the land, and the music was not the least
excellent feature of the mournful display. About thirty bands were in
the line, and these played all varieties of solemn marches, so that
there were continual and mingling strains of funeral music for more than
three hours. Artillery, consisting of heavy brass pieces, followed
behind. In fact, all the citizen virtues and all the military enterprise
of the country were evidenced. Never again, until Washington becomes in
fact what it is in name, the chief city of America, shall we have a
scene like this repeated--the grandest procession ever seen on this
continent, spontaneously evoked to celebrate the foulest crime on
record. If any feeling of gratulation could arise in so calamitous a
time, it would be, that so soon after this appalling calamity the nation
calmly and collectedly rallied about its succeeding rulers, and showed
in the same moment its regret for the past and its resolution for the
future. To me, the scene in the White House, the street, and the capitol
to-day, was the strongest evidence the war afforded of the stability of
our institutions, and the worthiness and magnanimous power of our
people.
The cortege passed to the left side of the Capitol, and entering the
great gates, passed to the grand stairway, opposite the splendid dome,
where the coffin was disengaged and carried up the ascent. It was posted
under the bright concave, now streaked with mournful trappings, and left
in state, watched by guards of officers with drawn swords. This was a
wonderful spectacle, the man most beloved and honored in the ark of the
republic. The storied paintings representing eras in its history were
draped in sable, through which they seemed to cast reverential glances
upon the lamented bier. The thrilling scenes depicted by Trumbull, the
commemorative canvases of Leutze, the wilderness vegetation of Powell,
glared from their separate pedestals upon the central spot where lay the
fallen majesty of the country. Here the prayers and addresses of the
noon were rehearsed and the solemn burial service read. At night the
jets of gas concealed in the spring of the dome were lighted up, so that
their bright reflection masses of burning light, like marvelous haloes,
upon the little box where so much that we love and honor rested on its
way to the grave. And so through the starry night, in the fane of the
great Union he had strengthened and recovered, the ashes of Abraham
Lincoln, zealously guarded, are now reposing. The sage, the citizen, the
patriot, the man, has reached all the eminence that life can give the
worthy or the ambitious. The hunted fugitive who struck through our
hearts to slay him, should stand beside his stately bier to see how
powerless are bullets and blades to take the real life of any noble man!
LETTER III.
THE MURDERER.
Washington, April 27th.