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The Portrait Life of Lincoln

PART III

A Revelation of the Last Scenes in the
Closing Hours of Lincoln

from Actual Photographs Taken at the Time

THE LAST LINGERING MOMENTS OF A NOBLE LIFE

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HIS is life's greatest moment-it comes to us all. It matters not how great or how humble we may be, we are all one at the end; the millions that have gone before, the millions that are to come. As Lincoln, on that tragic night, on the fourteenth of April, entered the box at the theater, in honor of the dawning peace, the orchestral strains of "Hail to the Chief" greeted him. The great audience rose to its feet and cheered. Lincoln bowed. It was a gala night. The spirit of joyousness filled every heart. The audience roared with laughter over the farcical lines of the mimic world on the stage.

woman.

Suddenly, a shot rang through the theater. There was the scream of a The figure of a man, an actor, sprang from the Presidential box, his eyes gleaming with passion. A smoking pistol fell from his hand as he clutched at a dagger. His spur caught in an American flag, and he fell upon the stage with the ensign wound about him. Raising his knife in the air, his words echoed above the tumult: "Sic semper tyrannis!"

The great audience was in frenzy; aisles and seats and galleries were filled with shouting, weeping, panic-stricken men and women; the crowd became uncontrollable. "My God, the President is shot!" sobbed strong men, while women fainted.

The body of Lincoln was lifted from his chair; his head drooped; blood was flowing from a wound. Over him, moaned his wife, pleading for him to speak. Gently they bore him from the theater. As they passed to the street, and carried him to the nearest house, their steps were marked by his ebbing blood. Behind them walked Mrs. Lincoln, weeping.

Great throngs crowded about the humble dwelling. Anxiously they waited for a message. The curtains were drawn at the windows. All night long the crowds lingered; now they were silent under the burden of grief; now bitterness rankled within them as its meaning flooded upon them. At the White House, not far distant, all was still. Suddenly the east door of the basement was thrown open. "Oh Tom! Tom!" cried a little voice. "They have killed papa dead! They have killed papa dead!" and he burst into sobs. It was little Tad. He threw himself into the arms of an old family servant.

"Now, now, boy," said the faithful friend, caressing him, "don't cry any more; let's go to bed." They turned down the cover and lay down together. The old servant put his arm around the grief-stricken lad; the sobs died away, and Tad fell into sound sleep.

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THE MAGNIFICENCE OF LIFE'S LAST TRIUMPH

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'ND after all-what does it mean for a man to live well? Come to that little chamber in the dingy brick building across the way. The stairs are dark and narrow. Walk softly through the long, dim hall. There is a door; knock gently; someone is opening it; there are tears in his eyes.

Step into the room-the simple bedchamber of a soldier. The flickering light of a gas-jet falls upon the pallid face of a man that you love. How pale and sad it is! The long, gaunt figure that you have known so long, how motionless it lies!

A moan comes from a grief-pent heart; the arms are lifted; now they fall; there is a long sigh. A smile comes to the face and rests upon it; how restful it is, like the benediction of peace. How long the night seems! How still it is: only the footfalls of the loved ones—and a sob!

The April rain is falling. Daylight sends its first gray rays through the window. The notes of the robin float on the morning breeze. Statesmen are gathering about the bed; army generals and senators stand with bowed heads. How white the face looks in the morning light. The pale cheeks flush; the lips seem to part; a magnificent light leaps from the deep, sunken eyes. A physician is leaning over the figure; his ear is close to the heart. The clock is ticking. He speaks: "The President is dead!"

A clergyman kneels by the bedside. A cabinet minister leans over the ashen face and gazes for a moment into it-how happy it looks! Then, tenderly stroking the lids with his hands, he closes the kind eyes in their last, long sleep, and, drawing a sheet over the slumbering man, his voice speaks low and deep: "Now he belongs to the ages!"

The hands of the clock on the mantel point at twenty-two minutes. after seven. It is Saturday morning. Tomorrow will be Easter Sunday. The statesmen bow, and pass from the room. A woman falls upon the lifeless form; oh, how she sobs; her loving heart is breaking! Close the door gently; leave them alone in life's greatest moment-a moment that you and I must soon meet-life's last triumph!

Was there ever a scene more magnificent? Was there ever a greater victory? Was there ever a man whose tribute from the world was more beautiful? Look at the thousands and the hundreds of thousands passing before his bier-looking into the face that they loved-men, women, and children, weeping; all races and sects knit together into one kinship his beloved children.

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HOUSE IN WHICH PRESIDENT LINCOLN DIED ON SATURDAY MORNING APRIL 15, 1865

Photograph taken of the building opposite Ford's Theater in which Lincoln
spent his last hours-The house is now the famous Lincoln Museum
established by Mr. Osborn H. Oldroyd at Washington, D. C.
Print in possession of M1. L. C. Handy of Washington

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