should finally leave the White House, at the end of his second term. Mrs. Lincoln desired to visit Europe, and Lincoln was not wholly certain whether it would be best to fix his residence finally in his old home in Springfield, or in California, where he thought the boys might have a better start in life than in any of the older portions of the Republic.

That night, as had been arranged, Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln, accompanied by General Grant and a few personal friends, were to visit the theatre. The fact had been announced in the newspapers, and an unusually large audience collected. General Grant was detained by business, and the President, Mrs. Lincoln, Miss Clara Harris (a daughter of Senator Ira Harris, of New York), and Major Rathbone, of the army, occupied a box near the stage, in the upper tier of boxes. John Wilkes Booth, an actor, had conspired with certain others to take the President's life on the first convenient occasion. This man, so far as known, had no personal grievance of which to complain. He had been possessed by an insane notion that Lincoln was an inhuman tyrant whose death was desirable. He and his companions had made their plans with great care and forethought. On this night he had a fleet horse ready in the rear of the theatre to bear him away when the deed should be done.

At half-past ten o'clock in the evening, while those present were absorbed in what was happening on the stage, the assassin, who had passed unnoticed into the rear of the box occupied by the President and his friends, held a pistol within a few inches of the head of

Lincoln, near the base of the brain, as he crept behind his illustrious victim, and fired. The ball entered the brain, and Lincoln fell forward insensible. The shot startled the great audience, but the position of the box did not allow many to see what had happened. Major Rathbone sprang to his feet and attempted to seize the assassin, who, drawing a long knife, stabbed Rathbone in the arm, and, profiting by the Major's repulse, jumped from the box to the stage. Striding across the stage, he brandished the knife, crying: "Sic semper tyrannis!"-the motto of the State of Virginia-"Ever so to tyrants." Then adding, "The South is avenged!" he vanished and

was seen no more..

In the midst of confusion and lamentation indescribable, the insensible form of Lincoln was carried from the theatre to a private residence across the street, and his family were sent for, and members of the Government made haste to assemble. Robert Lincoln, his mother, the secretaries of the President, members of the Cabinet, and a few of the personal friends of the family watched by the bed of the dying President through the night. No human skill could save that precious life, and all that science could do was merely to support the vigorous and well-trained natural powers as they struggled involuntarily with approaching death. The President uttered no word, and gave no sign of being conscious of what had taken place, or of the presence of those about him. The tremulous whispers of medical attendants, the suppressed sobs of strong men, and the labored breathing of the dying man were the only sounds that broke

the stillness of the chamber. At twenty-two minutes past seven o'clock, on the morning of April 15th, the mighty heart had ceased to beat. Lincoln was dead.

While this tragedy was taking place in the theatre, other members of the gang had attempted to take the lives of other members of the Government. Plans to assassinate Vice-President Johnson and Secretary Stanton, of the War Department, were turned aside by what seemed to be accidental circumstances. Secretary Seward was confined to his bed by an accident, and one assassin contrived to elude the keeper of the house-door and penetrate to the Secretary's sick-room, where he attacked the invalid and inflicted several frightful dagger-wounds upon his face and head. Mr. Seward's son and others of the family were able to thwart the ruffian's purpose and save the life of the venerable Secretary. The wouldbe assassin escaped for a time, but was afterwards caught. Several of his accomplices were arrested and, after trial and conviction, were put to death, Mr. Seward's assailant among the number. The man who assassinated Lincoln was hunted down finally, caged in a barn in Maryland, and shot like a dog.

As the sun rose red over Washington on the morning of April 15th, the body of Lincoln was carried to the White House, followed by a little procession of weeping but stern-faced men. Grief and a vague desire for revenge for this cruel and needless crime struggled for the mastery. This was the feeling all over the country, when the heavy tidings of the foul and most unnatural murder went forth over the length and breadth of the land. Flags that had

been flying in triumph were lowered to half-mast in sorrow. It is no stretch of imagination to say that a great wave of lamentation, spontaneous and exceeding bitter, swept over the Republic. Bells were tolled and minute-guns were fired. For days all ordinary business, except that of the most imperative importance, was practically suspended, and the nation seemed abandoned to its mighty grief.

Andrew Johnson, the Vice-President of the United States, by virtue of his office now succeeded to the Presidency, and, shortly after the body of Lincoln had been borne to the White House, he was sworn into office.

On Wednesday, April 19th, the funeral of the dead President took place at the White House, in the midst of an assemblage of the chief men of the nation. From the mansion in which the beloved Lincoln had suffered and toiled so much for the good of the people, his form was carried to the Capitol of the nation, in the rotunda of which it lay in state for one day, guarded by a company of high officers of the army and navy and a detachment of soldiers. Thousands of men, women, and children passed through the building to take their last look of the face of Lincoln, white in his coffin. It was a memorable spectacle, and sighs and sobs attested the genuine grief of those who crowded in weeping throngs to see the Emancipator for the last time.

Lincoln was buried in Oak Ridge Cemetery, near Springfield, Illinois. The funeral train left Washington on the 21st of April, and traversed nearly the same route that had been passed over by the train

that bore him, President-elect, from Springfield to Washington four years before. It was a funeral unique, wonderful. Nearly two thousand miles were traversed; the people lined the entire distance, almost without interval, standing with uncovered heads, mute with grief, as the sombre cortege swept by. Even night and falling showers did not keep them away from the line of the sad procession. Watch-fires blazed along the route in the darkness, and by day every device that could lend picturesqueness to the mournful scene and express the woe of the people was employed. In some of the larger cities the coffin of the illustrious dead was lifted from the funeral train and carried through from one end to the other, attended by mighty processions of citizens, forming a funeral pageant of proportions so magnificent and imposing that the world has never since seen the like. Thus, honored in his funeral, guarded to his grave by famed and battle-scarred generals of the army, Lincoln's body was laid to rest at last near his old home. Friends, neighbors, men who had known and loved homely and kindly honest Abe Lincoln, assembled to pay their final tribute of affection and honor at his burying-place. And, with the remains of his darling little son Willie by his side, he was left whose life had begun in the poverty and obscurity of an American wilderness, and ended in the full blaze of the white light that beats upon a place conspicuous in the world's wide fame. In due time a noble monument, reared by the loving hands of the people to whom he had dedicated his life, rose to mark the spot.