the world lost the prayer-a prayer which was only interrupted by the sobs of Stanton as he buried his face in the bedclothes. As "Thy will be done, Amen," in subdued and tremulous tones floated through that little chamber, Mr. Stanton raised his head, the tears streaming down his cheeks. A more agonized expression I never saw on a human countenance as he sobbed out the words, "He belongs to the ages now."

Mr. Stanton directed Major Thomas M. Vincent of the staff to take charge of the body, called a meeting of the Cabinet in the room where we had passed most of the night and the assemblage dispersed.

Going to my apartment, I sat down at once to make a second longhand copy for Mr. Stanton of the testimony I had taken, it occurring to me that I wished to retain the one I had written out that night. I had been thus engaged but a brief time when hearing some commotion on the street, I stepped to the window and saw a coffin containing the body of the dead president being placed in a hearse which passed up Tenth Street to F and thus to the White House, escorted by a lieutenant and ten privates. As they passed with measured tread and arms reversed, my hand involuntarily went to my head in salute as they started on their long, long journey back to the prairies and the hearts he knew and loved so well, the mortal remains of the greatest American of all time, bar none.

(Signed)

James Tanner.

III. THE DIARY OF JOHN WILKES BOOTH

Interest in matters relating to John Wilkes Booth had been increased in recent years by a book written by Finis L. Bates, of Memphis, entitled The Escape and Suicide of John Wilkes Booth. Mr. Bates knew, in 1872, a man who called himself John St. Helen, then living at Granberry, Texas. This man he firmly believed to have been Booth. On January 13, 1903, a man committed suicide at Enid, Oklahoma, whose name as known in

that locality was David E. George. This man, by a chain of evidence which need not here be repeated, was believed by some to have been Booth. Mr. Bates went to Enid and became convinced that George was the man he had known in 1872 as St. Helen, and he secured additional evidence which caused him to believe that this was Booth. Reverend Clarence True Wilson has delivered a lecture setting forth this claim, and it has been accepted by the Oklahoma State Historical Society. Ray Stannard Baker, in McClure's for May, 1897, gives in detail the story of the death and burial of Booth. William G. Shepherd in Harper's Magazine for November, 1924, investigates and denies the Bates claim. There can be no doubt of Mr. Bates' good faith, and his evidence was worked up with real ability. He died on Thanksgiving Day, 1923.

The War Department has, and keeps with great care, the Diary of John Wilkes Booth, recovered from his body as he was shot in the Garrett corn-crib. It is a small volume, bound in red leather, lined with silk. I have copied its story of the assassination and of the events that followed. In one or two places I am unable to decipher the words. It is apparent that Booth expected to be hailed as a hero and was horrified that he was regarded as a common criminal.

The Library of Harvard College has the record book of the Baltimore cemetery in which the stubs show a receipt for the body of Booth. This shows unquestionably what Booth's relatives believed, or at the very least what they wished the public to think they believed. Mr. H. H. Kohlsatt recently published in the Saturday Evening Post the letters of the Booth family to Andrew Johnson and President Grant asking for the body, which eventually they obtained and buried in Baltimore.

It was written at two different times. The entry dated April fourteenth may be presumed to have been penned in the house of Doctor Mudd, where Booth rested for a few hours while his leg was set, and the other, dated April twenty-first, four days before his discovery.

April 14. Friday the Ides. Until to-day nothing was ever thought of sacrificing to our country's wrongs. For six months we had worked to capture. But, our cause being almost lost, something decisive and great must be done. But its failure was owing to others who did not strike for their country with a heart. I struck boldly, and not as the papers say. I walked with a firm step through a thousand of his friends, was stopped, but pushed on. A Colonel was at his side. I shouted sic semper before I fired. In jumping, broke my leg. I passed all his pickets, rode sixty miles that night with the bone of my leg tearing the flesh at every jump. I can never repent it. Though we hated to our country owed all her troubles to him, and God simply made me the instrument of his punishment. The country is not what I have loved. I care not what becomes of me. I have no desire to outlive my country. This night before the deed I wrote a long article and left it for the National Intelligencer in which I fully set forth our reasons for our proceedings. We of the south.

Friday 21. After being hunted like a dog through swamps, woods, and last night being chased by gunboats till I was forced to return, wet, cold and starving, with every man's hand against me, I am here in despair, and why?

For doing what Brutus was honored for-who made Tell a Hero. And yet I have stricken down a greater tyrant than they ever knew. I am looked upon as a common cut-throat. My action was purer than either of theirs. One hoped to be great himself, the other had not only his country's but his own wrongs to avenge. I hoped for no gain. I knew no private wrongs. I struck for my country, and for that alone. A country ground down under this tyranny, and prayed for this . . . . yet now behold the cold hand they . . . . to me. God cannot pardon me if I have done wrong. Yet I cannot see any wrong except in serving a degenerate people.

The little, the very little I left behind to clear my name, the Govmt will not permit to be printed. So ends all. For my country I have given all that makes life sweet and Holy, brought misery upon my family, and am sure there is no pardon in the Heavens for me, since Man condemns me so . . . . of what has been done . . . . I did myself and it fills me with horror.

God! try and forgive me and bless my mother. To-night I will once more try the river with the intention to cross, though I have a greater desire and almost a mind to return to Washington,

and in a measure clear my name which I feel I could do. I do not repent the blow I struck. I may before my God, but not to man. I think I have done well, though I am abandoned, with the curse of Cain upon me, when, if the world knew my heart, that one blow would have made me great, though I did not desire greatness.

To-night I try to escape the bloodhounds once more. Who, who can read his fate? God's will be done. . . . too great a soul to die like a criminal.

May He, may He spare me that, and let me die bravely! I bless the entire world. Have never hated or wronged any one. This was not wrong unless God deems it so, and it's with Him to damn or bless me. And . . . . this brave boy Herold with me . . . . often prayes (yes, before and since) with a true and sincere heart. Was it a crime in him?

If so, why can he pray the same? I do not wish to shed a drop of blood, but I must "fight the course." "Tis all that's left

me.

There is little need to comment on these records, or to emphasize the contrast between the frame of mind the writer was in at the time when he made the first of them and that which succeeded in the distressing week that followed.

His attempt to escape did not succeed. The pursuing avengers hemmed him in closer and yet more closely. Late on the afternoon of April twenty-fifth, a cavalry squad located him in a barn in Virginia, and ordered him to surrender. On his refusal, they fired the barn. Booth still refused to come out, but asked that Herold be permitted to surrender, and he was taken prisoner. As the flames lighted up the interior of the building, Booth was seen with a carbine, and was shot, against orders, by a half-insane soldier, Boston Corbett. The bullet lodged in the base of Booth's brain, and he was paralyzed below that point, but fully conscious until his death. The wound he received was similar to that he inflicted upon the president, with this difference, that Lincoln knew no moment of suffering, and Booth must have suffered exquisite pain from the moment he was wounded until his death on the following morning.

IV. HOW EDWIN BOOTH SAVED ROBERT LINCOLN'S LIFE

Edwin Booth was playing at Cincinnati when his brother murdered President Lincoln. He was not permitted to continue the play, but left the city quietly and in some apprehension of violence. Some newspapers made a commendable effort to dissociate his name from that of his brother by affirming that he had always been a friend of the Union. The New York Times, on Sunday, April 16, 1865, the day following the death of Lincoln, in an editorial on the murder, related the following incident, which proves, on investigation, to have been substantially correct. It is certainly a coincidence worth recording that only a few weeks before the assassination, the brother of Lincoln's murderer saved the life of Lincoln's son:

us.

Quite recently his brother Edwin ejected him (John Wilkes Booth) from his house in New York, simply because his expressions were unbearable to a man of loyalty and intelligence. And here it is only thoughtful and just to say that the Union cause has no stronger or more generous supporter than Mr. Edwin Booth. From the commencement he has been earnestly and actively solicitous for the triumph of our arms and the welfare of our soldiers. An incident—a trifle in itself-may be recalled at this moment when the profound monotony of grief overwhelms Not a month since, Mr. Edwin Booth was proceeding to Washington. At Trenton there was a general scramble to reach the cars, which had started, leaving many behind in the refreshment saloons. Mr. Edwin Booth was preceded by a gentleman whose foot slipped as he was stepping on the platform, and who would have fallen at once beneath the wheels had not Mr. Edwin Booth's arm sustained him. The gentleman remarked that he had had a narrow escape of his life and was thankful to his preserver. It was Robert Lincoln, the son of the great, good man who now lies dead before our blistered eyes, and whose name we cannot mention without choking.

In some way this incident came to the knowledge of LieutGeneral Grant, who at once wrote a civil letter to Mr. Edwin Booth and said that if he could serve him at any time he would be glad to do so. Mr. Booth replied, playfully, that when he