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Not less than 20,000 people gathered at Lancaster, every one seeming eager to know which car contained the President's remains. On being informed, all eyes turned eagerly to salute it. The carriage depot was wreathed with flags lined with black fringes and studded with rosettes of stars. work of art in honor of the honored dead, it was as exquisite as it was appropriate. On either side of the train, in line, were literary and religious societies, uncovered; and reaching out away beyond the suburbs, standing in the fields and on eminences close by the railroad, were a number of farmers, who, uncovered, with hats in left hand, held up their right to Heaven, as if vowing before God that they were now and ever ready to avenge their fallen chieftain. Near the little village of Gap passengers were out in fields adjacent, and stood uncovered until the train passed by, after which they resumed their seats in their own train and sped onward.

Through Parkersburg the people lined the houses, railroad cars, and fences, anxious mourning spectators. From poles erected on both sides the railroad lines floated drooping flags draped in mourning. In the suburbs of Philadelphia, tastefully draped private residences and drooping flags, and large assemblages, evidenced how truly the people felt their sorrow. As the train approached the heart of the city, the crowds of people increased-guns peal forth. At the depot, the Mayor and Council, and different societies, and an immense concourse of people awaited to convey the sacred treasure to Independence Hall. It may be said that the entire route from Baltimore to Philadelphia was amid crowds of sorrowing people, for between villages and towns, all the way, farmers and their families assembled in fields and about houses, seriously and reverently gazing at the fleeting funeral cortège.


The funeral cortège reached Broad-street station in Philadelphia at half-past four o'clock. The procession did not move until six. The military, both white and black, made a fine display. The City Troop acted as bodyguard to the corpse. In the procession were the Mayor, the City Councils, and other municipal authorities, Federal officers, army and navy officers stationed in the city and neighborhood, the Judiciary members

of the Legislature, Members of Congress, representatives of foreign courts, and numerous others of distinction. The firemen, and every society, institute, and organization, were well represented, especially the Knights Templars, the Odd Fellows, and the Fenians. Many colored men also appeared as mem bers of charitable and other societies, with appropriate badges and regalia.

The procession occupied an hour and a half in passing the streets designated in the programme. It had been dark for more than an hour when the funeral car reached Independence Hall, and an hour after this, at half-past nine o'clock, the rear of the column had not started from the back streets in which the several divisions were formed. Notwithstanding the delay and the darkness, the immense numbers of people who had assembled from the city and surrounding country remained in the streets to witness the entire pageant. Extra trains had been running into the city all day from all directions, each bringing hundreds of visitors. Every inch of space along the route designated for the procession was contended for, and, doubtless, at least two hundred and fifty thousand people were out to see the spectacle. The hotels were overrun with guests, and many of the visitors from a distance passed the night shelterless and supperless in the streets, unable to obtain accommodations. The ashes of the nation's martyr found a fixed resting-place in Independence Hall, around which cluster so many historical memories, and over which, four years ago, the then President elect hoisted the American flag, with a declaration of his willingness to sacrifice his life rather than abandon the cause which he has at length fallen in defending, and where have since reposed the remains of the first prominent Union martyr, Colonel Ellsworth, and of General Lyon, Colonel Baker, Lieutenant Greble, and many others of our great army of dead heroes. The bier was close to the famous old Liberty Bell which first sounded forth in 1776 the tidings of Independence.

The interior of the Hall, as well as exterior, was heavily draped and most artistically illuminated. Around the remains were appropriate decorations, leaves of exquisite evergreens and flowers of an exquisite crimson bloom. At the head of the corpse were bouquets; beneath, the flaming tapers at the feet; from the elaborately hung walls the portraits of the great and

good dead were eloquent in their silence, and seemed to say that not one of the great actors of other eras preserved in canvas, marble, and metal, looking down like living mourners on that honored catafalque, ever filled his space with more dignity than the dead Lincoln. Not Columbus, from his brazen door; not De Soto, planting his cross on the Mississippi; not Pocahontas; not Miles Standish, on the Mayflower; not William Penn, making peace with the Indians; not Benjamin Franklin, in his philosophy; not the fiery Patrick Henry, as he ejaculated his war-cry in the Virginia House of Delegates-nor John Adams, as he shouted it in Boston; not Washington, with his sword; nor Jefferson, with his pen; nor Hamilton, with his statesmanship; nor John Jay; nor John Marshall, the purest jurist of our earlier or later history; nor Perry, the Sea King of 1812, riding on billows of blood through a line of blazing ships; nor Jackson, with his triple triumph over savage, and Briton, and the spirit of incipient treason; not one was more worthy of the genius of the poet, the painter, the sculptor, and the orator, than the gentle and illustrious patriot whose virtues and whose genius the American people now


The next morning the body of President Lincoln was visited by thousands, on invitation tickets from the Select Council. Before daylight lines were formed east and west of Independence Hall, passing in by two stairways through the front windows and out by the rear into the Square. By ten o'clock these lines extended at least three miles, from the Delaware to the Schuylkill river, thousands occupying three or four hours before accomplishing their object-seeing the remains. A military guard and the police at Fifth and Sixth streets prevented the throng from accumulating in front of the Hall, none being allowed to pass except in line. Great numbers of females took position in line, and notwithstanding the fatigue of slow progress effected their object, many only giving up when they fainted and were carried off by their friends. Colored men and women were liberally sprinkled along the line.

The corpse was exposed at Independence Hall from nine o'clock at night until one o'clock next morning, at which hour thousands of persons were obliged to retire disappointed from the streets subsequently to renew their efforts. Although the

doors were not opened until five o'clock in the morning, long before that hour an anxious crowd had assembled, and this comparatively small number was from minute to minute increased. By eight o'clock it was almost impossible to pass within two or three blocks of the Hall on the Chestnut-street side, while the cross-streets were pouring forth their myriads of human beings. A military and police force endeavored to restrain the pressure towards the door. The long lines formed for miles were kept up until a late hour at night. As they were diminished in the front, accessions were furnished in the rear. Some had been waiting for six or eight hours before they gained admission to the Hall, while others became so weary as to be compelled to abandon their hope.

The scenes at the Hall were impressively solemn, and not a few persons were affected to tears. An old colored woman, sixty-five or seventy years of age, thrilled the spectators with her open expressions of grief. Gazing for a few moments on the face of the dead, she exclaimed, clasping her hands, while tears coursed down her withered cheeks: "Oh, Abraham Lincoln; Oh! he is dead, he is dead!" The sympathy and love expressed by this poor woman found a response in every heart, and seemed to increase, if possible, the general grief.

The wounded soldiers hobbling in or borne to the spot in ambulances, formed a touching sight as they came to look on the great man who had fallen for the Union.

The funeral train left Philadelphia at 4 a. m., on the 24th of April. The incidents of the journey were similar to those seen elsewhere. Sometimes the track was lined on both sides for miles with a continuous array of people. The most impressive scene of the whole route thus far was furnished by the city of Newark, although no stop of any length was made there. The track runs directly through the city, and the space on each side of the road is very broad and afforded ample room for spectators. It seemed as if the inhabitants of Newark had resolved to turn out en masse to pay their brief tribute of respect to the memory of the departed as his coffin passed by. For a distance of a mile, the observer on the train could perceive only one sea of human beings. It was not a crowd surging with excitement or impatience like most great assemblages, but stood quiet and apparently subdued with grief unspeakable.

Every man, with nardly an exception, from one end of the town to the other, stood bareheaded while the train passed, half of the women were crying, and every face bore an expression of sincere sadness. Housetops, fences, and the very switches beside the track, were covered with men. Words can do no justice in the spectacle.

Of a grander character was the reception given to the remains at Jersey City. The depot, one of the largest halls in the country, was draped in the mourning garb assumed on the first news being received of the national loss. The balconies were hung with mourning, arranged in diagonal patterns of black and white, and at the eastern end of the building was the inscription


At the other ends were the words:

APRIL 15, 1865."

On the ferry house was this motto:


The long galleries were filled with ladies, and in the centre of the hall stood the choir of seventy singers.

The exterior of the depot was also draped, and the clock was stopped at twenty-two minutes past seven, the hour at which the President died. At the western end of the depot, close to the entrance through which it was arranged the funeral cortege should pass, one of the tracks was boarded over from platform to platform, so as to give abundant room for the removal of the body out of the funeral car.

Almost unheard, the nine cars of the funeral train, all draped with black, glided steadily in through the western gates of the station. The guards presented arms; a battery of the Hudson County Artillery, at a little distance, fired minute guns. As the richly decorated coffin, with its silver ornaments, was exposed to view, the choral societies began to chant the Integer

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