The Life of Abraham Lincoln Part 24

"I tell you there is no time on record equal to that made by the two Old Abes on that occasion. The historic ride of John Gilpin, and Henry Wilson's memorable display of bareback equestrianship on the stray army mule from the scenes of the battle of Bull Run, a year ago, are nothing in comparison to mine, either in point of time made or in ludicrous pageantry."

"No good can result at this time from giving [this occurrence]

publicity. It does seem to me that I am in more danger from the augmentation of an imaginary peril than from a judicious silence, be the danger ever so great; and, moreover, I do not want it understood that I share your apprehensions. I never have."

When one takes into account the number of Lincoln's bitter enemies, and the desperate character of some of them, the wonder is that he was not shot sooner. There were mult.i.tudes of ruffians in Washington City and elsewhere, who had murder in their hearts and plenty of deadly weapons within reach. Yet Lincoln lived on for four years, and was reluctant to accept even a nominal body guard. The striking parallel between him and William the Silent will at once occur to the reader. He, like Lincoln, would take no precaution. He exposed himself freely, and there were plots almost innumerable against his life before he was slain. Such persons seem to have invisible defenders.

Lincoln was not a fatalist, but he did believe that he would live to complete his specific work and that he would not live beyond that.

Perhaps he was wise in this. Had he surrounded himself with pomp and defense after the manner of Fremont he could not have done his work at all, for his special calling required that he should keep near to the people, and not isolate himself. Moreover, it is a question whether an elaborate show of defense would not have invited a correspondingly elaborate ingenuity in attack. His very trustfulness must have disarmed some. The wonder is not that he was slain at last, but that under the circ.u.mstances he was not slain earlier.

Much has been written, and perhaps justly, of Lincoln's presentiments.

It is not exceptional, it is common in all rural communities to multiply and magnify signs. The commonest occurrences are invested with an occult meaning. Seeing the new moon over the right shoulder or over the left shoulder, the howling of a dog at night, the chance a.s.semblage of thirteen persons, the spilling of salt,--these and a thousand other things are taken to be signs of something. The habit of attending to these things probably originates in mere amus.e.m.e.nts. It takes the place, or furnishes the material, of small talk. But years of attention to these things, especially in the susceptible period of childhood and youth, are almost certain to have a lasting effect. A person gets into the habit of noting them, of looking for them, and the influence becomes ingrained in his very nature so that it is next to impossible to shake it off. This condition is a feature of all rural communities, not only in the West, but in New England: in fact, in Europe, Asia, Africa, and Australia.

Lincoln shared the impressibility of the community in which he grew up; no more, no less. Like all the rest, indeed, like all of mankind, he counted the hits, not the misses. Being unusually outspoken, he often told of impressions which another would not have mentioned. The very telling of them magnified their importance. He had been having premonitions all his life, and it would be strange if he did not have some just before his death. He did, and these are the ones that are remembered.

In spite of all, he was in excellent spirits on Good Friday, April 14, 1865. The burdens and sorrows of bloodshed had made an old man of him.

But the war was at an end, the stars and stripes were floating over Sumter, the Union was saved, and slavery was doomed. There came back into his eyes the light that had long been absent. Those who were about him said the elasticity of his movements and joyousness of his manner were marked. "His mood all day was singularly happy and tender."

The events of the day were simple. It was the day of the regular meeting of the cabinet. Grant, who had arrived in Washington that morning, attended this meeting. It was the President's idea that the leaders of the Confederacy should be allowed to escape,--much as he had already jocularly advised Grant to let Jeff Davis escape "all unbeknown to himself." He spoke plainly on the subject. "No one need expect me to take any part in hanging or killing these men, even the worst of them.

Enough lives have been sacrificed." After the discussion of various matters, when the cabinet adjourned until the following Tuesday, the last words he ever uttered to them were that "they must now begin to act in the interests of peace."

In the afternoon he went for a drive with Mrs. Lincoln. The conversation embraced plans of living--in Chicago? or California?-- after the expiration of his term of office. This fact shows that his presentments did not make so real an impression on him as many people have believed.

Three days before this his devoted servant Colonel Lamon--we might almost call him his faithful watch-dog, so loving, loyal, and watchful was he--had gone on an errand for him to Richmond. Lamon, who was loath to start, tried to secure from him a promise in advance of divulging what it was to be. Lincoln, after much urging, said he thought he would venture to make the promise. It was that he would promise not to go out after night in Lamon's absence, and _particularly to the theater_ (italics Lamon's). The President first joked about it, but being persistently entreated said at last: "Well, I promise to do the best I can towards it."

But for the evening of the day under consideration, Mrs. Lincoln had got up a theater party--her husband was always fond of the diversion of the theater. The party was to include General and Mrs. Grant. But the general's plans required him to go that evening to Philadelphia, and so Major Rathbone and Miss Harris were subst.i.tuted. This party occupied the upper proscenium box on the right of the stage.

About ten o'clock, J. Wilkes Booth, a young actor twenty-six years of age, and very handsome, glided along the corridor towards that box.

Being himself an actor and well known by the employees of the theater, he was suffered to proceed without hindrance. Pa.s.sing through the corridor door he fastened it shut by means of a bar that fitted into a niche previously prepared, and making an effectual barricade. A hole had been bored through the door leading into the box so that he could survey the inmates without attracting their attention. With revolver in one hand and dagger in the other he noiselessly entered the box and stood directly behind the President who was enjoying the humor of the comedy.

"The awful tragedy in the box makes everything else seem pale and unreal. Here were five human beings in a narrow s.p.a.ce--the greatest man of his time, in the glory of the most stupendous success in our history, the idolized chief of a nation already mighty, with illimitable vistas of grandeur to come; his beloved wife, proud and happy; a pair of betrothed lovers, with all the promise of felicity that youth, social position, and wealth could give them; and this young actor, handsome as Endymion upon Latmos, the pet of his little world.

The glitter of fame, happiness, and ease was upon the entire group, but in an instant everything was to be changed with the blinding swiftness of enchantment. Quick death was to come on the central figure of that company--the central figure, we believe, of the great and good men of the century. Over all the rest the blackest fates hovered menacingly-- fates from which a mother might pray that kindly death would save her children in their infancy. One was to wander with the stain of murder on his soul, with the curses of a world upon his name, with a price set upon his head, in frightful physical pain, till he died a dog's death in a burning barn; the stricken wife was to pa.s.s the rest of her days in melancholy and madness; of those two young lovers, one was to slay the other, and then end his life a raving maniac" (Nicolay and Hay, X.

295).

The revolver was thrust near to the back of the head of the unsuspecting victim--that kind man who had "never willingly planted a thorn in any man's bosom," who could not bear to witness suffering even in an animal. The report of the pistol was somewhat m.u.f.fled and was unnoticed by the majority of the audience. The ball penetrated the President's brain, and without word or sound his head dropped upon his breast. Major Rathbone took in the situation and sprang at the murderer who slashed him savagely with the dagger, tore himself free, and leaped over the bal.u.s.trade upon the stage. It was not a high leap for an athletic young man, but his spur caught in a flag with which the box was draped, so that he did not strike quite squarely on his feet. The result was that he broke his leg or ankle. But gathering himself up, he flourished his dagger, declaiming the motto of Virginia, _Sic semper Tyrannis_ (Thus ever to tyrants), and before the audience could realize what was done, he disappeared. He ran out of the rear of the theater where a fleet horse was in waiting. He mounted and rode for his life.

For eleven days he was in hiding, with the curse of Cain upon him, suffering all the while excruciating agonies from his broken leg, which could be but imperfectly cared for. He was finally corralled in a barn, the barn was set on fire, and while thus at bay he was shot down.

Aid came at once to the President, but the surgeons saw at a glance that the wound was mortal. They carried him out into the open air. When they reached the street the question arose, Where shall we take him? On the opposite side of the street was an unpretentious hotel. A man, standing on the front steps, saw the commotion and asked what it meant.

On being told, he said, "Take him to my room." It was thus that the greatest man of the age died in a small room of a common hotel. But this was not unfitting; he was of the plain people, he always loved them, and among them he closed his earthly record. He lingered unconscious through the night, and at twenty minutes after seven o'clock, on the morning of April 15th, he died.

The band of a.s.sa.s.sins of which Booth was the head, planned to murder also other officials. Grant escaped, having suddenly left the city. The only other person who was actually attacked was Seward. Though the a.s.sa.s.sin was a giant in stature and in strength, though he fought like a madman, and though Seward was at the time in bed with his right arm and jaw fractured, he having been thrown from a horse, yet strangely enough he was not killed. The a.s.sa.s.sin inflicted many and terrible wounds, especially upon Frederick Seward, his son, who did not regain consciousness for weeks; but no one in that house was killed.

Surely never did the telegraph hear heavier news than when it flashed the message, "Lincoln has been a.s.sa.s.sinated." More than one ex- Confederate stoutly declared that "when Lincoln was murdered the South lost its best friend." And thousands of others replied, that was the truth! At the dedication of his monument in 1874 General Grant gave utterance again to this thought: "In his death the nation lost its greatest hero; in his death the South lost its most just friend."

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

A NATION'S SORROW.

The outburst of sorrow and indignation over the foul murder of the President was so great as to lead people to a.s.sume that Lincoln was at all times and universally a favorite. Those who know better have sometimes thought it discreet to preserve silence. But the greatness of his work cannot be appreciated at its full value unless one bears in mind that he had not the full measure of sympathy and a reasonable help from those on whom he had a right to depend. During the four years that he was in Washington he was indeed surrounded by a band of devoted followers. But these people were few in numbers. Those who sympathized with Fremont, or McClellan, or Greeley, plus those who were against Lincoln on general principles, const.i.tuted a large majority of the people who ought to have sustained him. All of these factions, or coteries, however much they differed among themselves, agreed in hampering Lincoln. For one person Lincoln was too radical, for another too conservative, but both joined hands to annoy him.

Much of this annoyance was thoughtless. The critics were conscientious, they sincerely believed that their plans were the best. They failed to grasp the fact that the end desired might possibly be better reached by other methods than their own. But on the other hand much of this annoyance was malicious.

When the shock of the murder came, there was a great revulsion of feeling. The thoughtless were made thoughtful, the malicious were brought to their senses. Neither cla.s.s had realized into what diabolical hands they were playing by their opposition to the administration. It was the greatness of the sorrow of the people--the plain people whom he had always loved and who always loved him--that sobered the contentions. Even this was not fully accomplished at once.

There is doc.u.mentary evidence to show that the extreme radicals, represented by such men as George W. Julian, of Indiana, considered that the death of Lincoln removed an obstruction to the proper governing of the country. Julian's words (in part) are as follows:

"I spent most of the afternoon [April 15, 1864, the day of Lincoln's death] in a political caucus held for the purpose of considering the necessity for a new Cabinet and a line of policy less conciliating than that of Mr. Lincoln; and while everybody was shocked at his murder, the feeling was nearly universal that the accession of Johnson to the presidency would prove a G.o.dsend to the country.... On the following day, in pursuance of a previous engagement, the Committee on the Conduct of the War met the President at his quarters at the Treasury Department. He received us with decided cordiality, and Mr. Wade said to him: 'Johnson, we have faith in you. There will be no trouble now in running the government.'... While we were rejoiced that the leading conservatives of the country were not in Washington, we felt that the presence and influence of the committee, of which Johnson had been a member, would aid the Administration in getting on the right track....

The general feeling was ... that he would act on the advice of General Butler by inaugurating a policy of his own, instead of administering on the political estate of his predecessor." (Julian, "Political Recollections," p. 255, ff.).

The names of the patriots who attended this caucus on the day of Lincoln's death, are not given. It is not necessary to know them. It is not probable that there were many exhibitions of this spirit after the death of the President. This one, which is here recorded in the words of the confession of one of the chief actors, is an exception. But _before_ the death of Lincoln, this spirit of fault-finding, obstruction, hostility, was not uncommon and was painfully aggressive.

_After_ his death there was a revulsion of feeling. Many who had failed to give the cheer, sympathy, and encouragement which they might have given in life, shed bitter and unavailing tears over his death.

On the other, the Confederate, side, it is significant that during the ten days the murderer was in hiding, no southern sympathizer whom he met wished to arrest him or have him arrested, although a large reward had been offered for his apprehension. As to the head of the Confederacy, Jeff Davis, there is no reasonable doubt that he approved the act and motive of Booth, whether he had given him a definite commission or not. Davis tried to defend himself by saying that he had greater objection to Johnson than to Lincoln. But since the conspiracy included the murder of both Lincoln and Johnson, as well as others, this defense is very lame. It was certainly more than a coincidence that Booth--a poor man who had plenty of ready money--and Jacob Thompson, the Confederate agent in Canada, had dealings with the same bank in Montreal. Davis himself said, "For an enemy so relentless, in the war for our subjugation, I could not be expected to mourn."

To put it in the mildest form, neither Jeff Davis in the South, nor the extreme radicals in the North, were sorry that Lincoln was out of the way. Extremes had met in the feeling of relief that the late President was now out of the way. This brings to mind a statement in an ancient book which records that "Herod and Pilate became friends with each other that very day; for before they were at enmity between themselves."

On Friday evening there had been general rejoicing throughout the loyal North. On Sat.u.r.day morning there rose to heaven a great cry of distress,--such a cry as has hardly been paralleled since the destruction of the first-born in Egypt. For the telegraph--invented since Lincoln had come into manhood--had carried the heavy news to every city and commercial center in the North. The shock plunged the whole community, in the twinkling of an eye, from the heights of exultation into the abyss of grief.

There was no business transacted that day. The whole nation was given up to grief. Offices, stores, exchanges were deserted. Men gathered in knots and conversed in low tones. By twelve o'clock noon there was scarcely a public building, store, or residence in any northern city that was not draped in mourning. The poor also procured bits of black crepe, or some subst.i.tute for it, and tied them to their door-k.n.o.bs.

The plain people were orphaned. "Father Abraham" was dead.

Here and there some southern sympathizer ventured to express exultation,--a very rash thing to do. Forbearance had ceased to be a virtue, and in nearly every such case the crowd organized a lynching bee in the fraction of a minute, and the offender was thankful to escape alive.

Though this wave of sorrow swept over the land from ocean to ocean, it was necessarily more manifest in Washington than elsewhere. There the crime had been committed. There the President's figure was a familiar sight and his voice was a familiar sound. There the tragedy was nearer at hand and more vivid. In the middle of the morning a squad of soldiers bore the lifeless body to the White House. It lay there in state until the day of the funeral, Wednesday. It is safe to say that on the intervening Sunday there was hardly a pulpit in the North, from which, by sermon and prayer, were not expressed the love of the chief.

On Wednesday, the day of the funeral in Washington, all the churches in the land were invited to join in solemnizing the occasion.

The funeral service was held in the East room of the White House, conducted by the President's pastor Dr. Gurley, and his eloquent friend, Bishop Simpson of the Methodist Episcopal church. Mrs. Lincoln, prostrated by the shock, was unable to be present, and little Tad would not come. Only Robert, a recent graduate of Harvard and at the time a member of Grant's staff, was there to represent the family.

After the service, which was brief and simple, the body was borne with suitable pomp and magnificence, the procession fittingly headed by negro troops, to the Capitol, where it was placed in the rotunda until the evening of the next day. There, as at the White House, innumerable crowds pa.s.sed to look upon that grave, sad, kindly face. The negroes came in great numbers, sobbing out their grief over the death of their Emanc.i.p.ator. The soldiers, too, who remembered so well his oft repeated "G.o.d bless you, boys!" were not ashamed of their grief. There were also neighbors, friends, and the general public.

It was arranged that the cortege should return to Springfield over as nearly as possible the same route as that taken by the President in 1861,--Baltimore, Harrisburg, Philadelphia, New York, Albany, Cleveland, Columbus, Indianapolis, and Chicago. In the party there were three of those who had escorted him to Washington,--David Davis, W. H.

Lamon, and General Hunter.

At eight o'clock on Friday, April 21st, the funeral train left Washington. It is hardly too much to say that it was a funeral procession two thousand miles in length. All along the route people turned out, not daunted by darkness and rain--for it rained much of the time--and stood with streaming eyes to watch the train go by. At the larger cities named, the procession paused and the body lay for some hours in state while the people came in crowds so great that it seemed as if the whole community had turned out. At Columbus and Indianapolis those in charge said that it seemed as if the entire population of the state came to do him honor. The present writer has never witnessed another sight so imposing.

Naturally the ceremonies were most elaborate in New York City. But at Chicago the grief was most unrestrained and touching. He was there among his neighbors and friends. It was the state of Illinois that had given him to the nation and the world. They had the claim of fellow- citizenship, he was one of them. As a citizen of the state of which Chicago was the leading city, he had pa.s.sed all his public life. The neighboring states sent thousands of citizens, for he was a western man like themselves, and for the forty-eight hours that he lay in state a continuous stream of all sorts and conditions of men pa.s.sed by sorrowing.

In all these cities not a few mottoes were displayed. Most of these were from his own writings, such as, "With malice toward none, with charity for all;" and, "We here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain." Two others are firmly fixed in the mind of the writer which are here given as a sample of all. The first is from the Bible: "He being dead yet speaketh." The second is from Shakespeare:

"His life was gentle, and the elements So mix'd in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, This was a man!"

His final resting-place was Springfield. Here, and in all the neighboring country, he was known to every one. He had always a kind word for every one, and now all this came back in memory. His goodness had not been forgotten. Those whom he had befriended had delighted to tell of it. They therefore came to do honor not merely to the great statesman, but to the beloved friend, the warm-hearted neighbor. Many could remember his grave face as he stood on the platform of the car that rainy morning in February, 1861, and said, "I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I shall return." Between the two days, what a large and n.o.ble life had been lived.

The city had made elaborate preparations for the final services. The funeral in Springfield was on May 4th. The order of service included a dirge, a prayer, the reading of his second inaugural address, and an oration. The latter was by Bishop Simpson and was worthy of the n.o.ble and eloquent orator. It was a beautiful day, the rain which had been falling during the long journey was over, and May sunshine filled earth and sky. Near the close of the day the body of the President, together with that of his little son Willie, which also had been brought from Washington, was laid in a vault in Oak Ridge cemetery.

A movement was at once set on foot to erect a suitable monument. For this purpose a few large sums of money were subscribed, but most of it came in small sums from the plain people. The negro troops contributed $8,000. The sum of $180,000 in all was raised and a n.o.ble structure was erected. It was dedicated in 1874. The orator of the day was his old- time friend, Governor, afterwards General, Oglesby. Warm words of appreciation were added by Generals Grant and Sherman. The former, who served under him as general and for two terms succeeded him in office, among other things said, "To know him personally was to love and respect him for his great qualities of heart and head, and for his patience and patriotism."