cially from the negroes. Their coarse, homely features were convulsed with a grief they could not control, and sobs, cries, and tears told how deeply they mourned their deliverer. At Philadelphia, the remains lay in state in old Independence Hall. Four years before, in that same hall, when on his way to the capital, he had declared he would sooner be assassinated than give up the principles of the Declaration of Independence. He had been assassinated because of his fidelity to those principles. The old historic bell, which had rung out the peal announcing the adoption of the Declaration of Independence, and on which had been engraved the words: "Proclaim liberty throughout the land to all the inhabitants thereof," stood at the head of the coffin of Lincoln-who had made and maintained that proclamation. The procession reached New York on the 24th, and remained until the 25th. Every house, from pavement to roof, all the way from the Battery to Central Park, was draped in black. Here came the venerable old soldier, General Scott, to take his last look at the President whose inauguration he had helped to secure.

As the train passed up the Hudson towards Albany, near one of the towns lying in the shadow of the mountains, a tableau of picturesque beauty had been arranged. Just as the evening sun was sinking behind the Kaatskills, the train was seen slowly approaching. A great crowd had gathered near the banks of the river. An open space encircled with evergreens was seen, and, as the train came still nearer, sad, slow, melancholy music was heard, and a beautiful woman representing Liberty was discovered kneeling over the grave of Lincoln, with a crown of laurels, and the flag draped in mourning.

And thus the sad procession moved on, reaching Chicago on the first of May. Here every one had personally known Mr. Lincoln. Here he had made his speeches to courts and juries. Here he had often debated with his great rival, Douglas, and here he had been nominated for President. Here, from all parts of Illinois now thronged his old friends

and neighbors. Here, as everywhere, mottoes expressive of the grief of the people were everywhere displayed. On the 3d of May, the funeral train reached Springfield, and his remains were taken to the State House, which had so often echoed with his eloquence. Over the door of the entrance, in allusion to the last words spoken by him when he bade his neighbors good-bye, were the lines:

The whole world hastened to express sympathy with the American people. From Windsor Castle and from the cottage of the humblest day-laborer, came the voice of sorrow. England's widowed queen, under her own hand, expressed the deepest sympathy with the widow at the White House. The English speaking race, from every part of its magnificent empire, from Parliament and Westminster Abbey, and from India, and Australia, Canada, and the Islands of the Sea, everywhere came forward with the expression of its profound regret. Indeed, all nations and all peoples vied with each other in the expression of their sorrow. These utterances were communicated to our State department. Mr. Seward felicitously called them "The Tribute of the Nations to Abraham Lincoln." They were printed, and constitute a quarto volume of nearly a thousand pages, unique in its character, and a tribute never before in any age paid to any man.

His body was taken to Oak Ridge Cemetery, and there, surrounded by his old friends and neighbors, his clients and constituents, among whom was here and there an old Clary Grove companion-there, with the nation and the world for his mourners-he was buried.

He left, as has been stated, a heart-broken widow, a woman whose intellect was shattered by a shock so awful as scarcely to have had a parallel in history. For a time she was beside herself with grief. She so far lost the control of her mind that she dwelt constantly on the incidents of the

last day of her husband's life, and she lost the ability, by any effort of her will, to think of other and less painful things.1

As time passed she partly recovered, and her friends hoped that change of scene and new faces would bring her back to a more sound and healthful mental condition. But the death of her son Thomas, to whom she was fondly attached, made her still worse. He died at Chicago, July 15th, 1871, and after this bereavement she became still more morbid, and from that time, Mrs. Lincoln, in the judgment of her most intimate friends, was never entirely responsible for her conduct. She was peculiar and eccentric, and had various hallucinations. These at one time

assumed such a form, that her devoted son and her family friends thought it safer and more wise that she should be under treatment for her physical and mental maladies. She was removed to the quiet of the country, where she received every possible kindness and attention, and in a few months so far improved that her elder sister, Mrs. Ninian Edwards, took her to her pleasant home in Springfield, where she lingered until her death, which took place on July 16th, 1882.

Mrs. Lincoln has been treated harshly-nay, most cruelly abused and misrepresented by a portion of the press. That love of scandal and of personality, unfortunately too general, induced reporters to hang around her doors, to dog her steps, to chronicle and exaggerate her impulsive words, her indiscretions, and her eccentricities. There is nothing in American history so unmanly, so devoid of every chivalric impulse, as the treatment of this poor, broken hearted woman,

1. The author called upon her a few days after her husband's death, and she narrated to him the incidents of the last day of Mr. Lincoln's life. The next day, and the next, and every time the author met her, she would go over these painful details, until she would be convulsed with sorrow. When entreated not to speak on such a painful subject, and when an effort was made to divert her to others less sad, she would apparently try to turn her thoughts elsewhere, but directly and unconsciously, she would return to these incidents, forgetful that she had told them to her visitor again and again, and she apparently had lost all power of choice in the subjects of her conversation.

whose reason was shattered by the great tragedy of her life. One would have supposed it to be sufficient to secure the forbearance, the charitable construction, or the silence of the press, to remember that she was the widow of Abraham Lincoln. When the Duke of Burgundy was uttering his coarse and idle jests concerning Margaret of Anjou, the Earl of Oxford rebuked and silenced him by saying: "My Lord, whatever may have been the defects of my mistress, she is in distress, and almost in desolation." 1

The abuse which a portion of the American press so pitilessly poured upon the head of Mary Lincoln, recalls that splendid outburst of eloquence on the part of Burke, when, speaking of the Queen of France, he said: "Little did I dream that I should live to see such disasters fall upon her in a nation of gallant men; a nation of men of honor, cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry has gone." Charles Sumner was true to the widow of his friend to the last. Largely through his influence, Congress passed a law giving to Mrs. Lincoln a pension, and conferring upon her the franking privilege for life.

1. Sir Walter Scott's "Anne of Geierstein."

CHAPTER XXVI.

CONCLUSION.

THOSE Who have read these pages thus far, have obtained the means of forming a more correct judgment of Abraham Lincoln than can be obtained from any attempt at description or word painting. He can be best studied and understood from his speeches, writings, acts, and conduct. And yet while conscious of his inability to do justice to his great subject, the author, who knew him from early manhood to his death, at the bar, on the stump, in private and in public life, cannot forbear the attempt to sketch and portray him as he saw and knew him.

Physically, as has been stated, he was a tall, spare man, with large bones, and towering up to six feet and four inches in height. He leaned forward, and stooped as he walked. He was very athletic, with long limbs, large hands and feet, and of great physical strength. There was no grace in his movements, but an expression of awkwardness, combined with force and vigor. By nature he was diffident, and when in crowds, not speaking and conscious of being observed, he seemed to shrink with bashfulness. When he spoke or listened, he immediately became absorbed in the subject, and all appearances of self-consciousness left him. His forehead was broad and high, his hair was rather stiff and coarse, and nearly black, his eye-brows heavy, his eyes dark grey, clear, very expressive, and varying with every mood, now sparkling with humor and fun, then flashing with wit; stern with indignation at wrong and injustice, then kind and genial, and then again dreamy and melancholy, and