tury, in the politics, history, art, etc., of the New World in point of fact, the main thing, the actual murder, transpired with the quiet and simplicity of any commonest occurrence the bursting of a bud or pod in the growth of vegetation, for instance. Through the general hum followiug the stage pause, with the change of positions, etc., came the muffled sound of a pistol shot, which not one-hundredth part of the audience heard at the timc-and yet a moment's hush-somehow, surely a vague, startled thrill—and then, through the ornamented, drapereied, starred, and striped space-way of the President's box, a sudden figure, a man, raises himself with hands and feet, stands a moment on the railing, leaps below to the stage (a distance perhaps of 14 or 15 feet), falls out of position catching his boot-heel in the copious drapery (the American flag), falls on one knee, quickly recovers himself, rises as if nothing had happened (he really sprains his ankle, but unfelt then) and the figure, Booth, the murderer, dressed in plain, black broadcloth, bare-headed, with a full head of glossy, raven hair, and his eyes, like some mad animal's flashing with light and resolution, yet with a certain strange calmness, holds aloft in one hand a large knife-walks along not much back of the foot-lights -turns fully towards the audience his face of statuesque beauty, lit by those basilisk eyes, flashing with desperation, perhaps insanity--launches out in a firm and steady voice the words Sic Semper Tyrannis—and then walks with neither slow nor very rapid pace diagonally across to the back of the stage, and disappears. (Had not all this terrible scene-making the mimic ones preposterous-had it not all been rehearshed, in blank, by Booth, beforehand?) A moment's hush, incredulous- -a scream- -a cry of murder Mrs. Lincoln leaning out of the box, with ashy cheeks and lips, with involuntary cry, pointing to the retreating figure, "He has killed the President." And still a moment's strange, incredulous suspenseand then the deluge!-then that mixture of horror, noises, uncertainty-(the sound, somewhere back, of a horse's hoofs clattering with speed) the people burst through chairs and railings, and break them up-that noise adds to the queerness of the scene-there is extricable confusion and terror-women faint-quite feeble persons fall, and are trampled on-many cries of agony are heard the broad stage suddenly fills to suffocation with a dense and motley crowd, like some horrible carnival-the audience rush generally upon it—at least the strong men do-the actors and actresses are there in their play costumes and painted faces, with moral fright showing through the rouge-some trembling, some in tears the screams and calls, confused talk-redoubled, trebled two or three manage to pass up water from the stage to the President's box, others try to clamber up, etc., etc, In the midst of all this the soldiers of the President's Guard, with others, suddenly drawn to the scene, burst in some 200 altogether they storm the house, through all the tiers, especially the upper ones-inflamed with fury, literally charging the audience with fixed bayonets, muskets and pistols, shouting "Clear out! clear out! you sons of b !" Such the wild scene, or a suggestion of it rather, inside the play house that night. Outside, too, in the atmosphere of shock and craze, crowds of people, filled with frenzy, ready to seize any outlet for it, came near committing murder several times on innocent individuals. One such case was particularly exciting. The infuriated crowd, through some chance, got started against one man, either for words he uttered, or perhaps without any cause at all, and were proceeding to hang him at once to a neighboring lamp-post, when he was rescued by a few heroic policemen, who placed him in their midst and fought their way slowly and amid great peril toward the station house. The It was a fitting episode of the whole affair. crowd rushing and eddying to and fro, the night, the yells, the pale faces, many frightened people trying in vain to extricate themselves, the attacked man, not yet freed from the jaws of death, looking like a corpse; the silent, resolute half-dozen policemen, with no weapons but their little clubs; yet stern and steady through all those eddying swarms; made indeed a fitting side scene to the grand tragedy of the murder. They gained the station house with the protected man, whom they placed in security for the night, and discharged him in the morning. And in the midst of that night pandemonium of senseless hate, infuriated soldiers, the audience and the crowd -the stage, and all its actors and actresses, its paint pots, spangles and gas-light-the life-blood from those veins, the best and sweetest of the land, drips slowly [Mr. Lincoln was removed from the theater to this adjacent building where he soon passed away.] [2871 down, and death's ooze already begins its little bubbles on the lips. Such, hurriedly sketched, were the accompaniments. of the death of President Lincoln. So suddenly, and in murder and horror unsurpassed, he was taken from us. But his death was painless. ·:0: LINCOLN'S FAVORITE POEM. Oh! Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? The evening of March 22nd, 1864, says F. B. Carpenter, was a most interesting one to me. I was with the President alone in his office for several hours. Busy with pen and papers when I went in, he presently threw them aside and commenced talking to me of Shakspeare, of whom he was very fond. Little Tad," his son, coming in, he sent him to the library for a copy of the plays, and then read to me several of his favorite passages. Relapsing into a sadder strain, he laid the book aside, and leaning back in his chair, said: "There is a poem which has been a great favorite with me for years, which was first shown to me when a young man by a friend, and which I afterwards saw and cut from a newspaper and learned by heart. I would," he continued, "give a great deal to know who wrote it, but I have never been able to ascertain." Then, half-closing his eyes, be repeated the verses to me, as follows: Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?— |