The Irish standard., 1901-09-21
broken by the same pitiful sobbing,
hut the mourmers were invisible.

same mourmful sounds Of distress met
me as passed along. 1t was light
in all the rooms; every object was
familiar to me; but where were all
the people who were grieving as If
their hearts would break?
"I was puzzled and alarmed. What
could be the meaning of oil this? De-
termined to find the cause of state
Of things so mysterious and so shock
ing, I kept on until arrived at the
East room, which entered.
"'There met with sickening sur
prise Before me was q catafalque on
which rested corpse wrapped in
funeral vestments. Around it were
stationed soldiers, who were acting as
guards; and there was throng Of
people, some gazing mournfully upon
the corpse, whose face was covered,
others weeping pitifully.
""Who is the dead in the White
House?" 1 demanded of one of the
soldiers.
"'''The president" was the answer;
che was Killed by an assassin!'
"Then came a loud burst Of grief
from the crowd, which awoke me from
my dream. slept no more that night;
and, although 1t was only dream,
have been strangelyannoyed by it ever
since.'"
This dream fingered in his mind to
the day Of his death. On the very
eve of his assassination, he quoted to
Lamon:
TO sleep, perchance to dream; aye,
there's the rub!"
1t had been planned that the presi-
dent and some of his official family
should attend Ford's theater on Good
Friday evening, April IA, 1865. The
president occupied box, together with
several officers of the army, on the
right Of the stage. Just after 10
o'clock, and while the president was
intent upon the scenes before him,
John Wilkes Booth, of the famous
family of actors, approached from be-
hind and shot the president through
the brain. He then stabbed Major
Henry r. Rathbone, one of the presi-
dents party, who attempted to arrest
him, and, with his dagger raised above
his head, leaped from the box upon
the stage. The high heel Of his boot
caught in an American flag that was
used to drape the presidents box,
and his ankle was spraiaed; but as he
sprang upon the stage he waved his
dagger, and, in deeply tragic voice
"a voice that had thrilled thousands
when it had recited the lines of Shake
speare's tragedies-cried out the motto
of Virginia: "Sic semper tyrannis,"
and added: "The South is avengedw
Limping, he ran to the rear of the
stage, mounted horse, and escaped.
He was surrounded in barn soon
afterwards and shot to death by SOL
diers.
Mr.. Lincoln was never conscious
after he was shot. He fingered until
about O'Clock the next morning, when
he expired in the house across the
street to which he had been removed
Immediately after being wounded.
The funeral Of Mr.. Lincoln was un-
doubtedly the greatest that ever oc-
Cured in America. The body was
taken by special train through Mary
land, Delaware, Pennsylvania, New
York and Indiana to Springfield, ILL.,,
where it was buried. At half dozen
cities it lay in state, and millions Of
people gazed-as they had done in his
dream-''mournfully upon the corpse;
others weeping pitifully."
whoever shall hereafter draw q
portrait of murder, If he will show it
as it has been exhibited, where such
example was least to have been looked
for. let him not give it the grim visage
of Moloch, the brow knitted by revenge,
the face black with settled hate. Let
him draw, rather, decorous, smooth
faced, bloodless demon; not SO much
an example Of human nature in its
depravity and in it's paroxysms Of
crime, as an internal being, a fiend
in the ordinary display and develop
ment Of his character"
Thus quoted Mr.. Blaine in his ora
ton on Garfield in the House of Rep
resentatlves on Feb. q, 1882. He had
been with the president, walking arm
in-arm through the waiting-room of
the Pennsylvania railroad station on
the morning of July 2, 1881. when Gut
teau, creeping up behind, had given
the president his death wound. He
had caught the stricken man as he
fell; he had helped him to n seat and
had called for help; and Of all public
men who had been affected by the
blow against the chief executive,
James G. Blaine, man Of emotion and
a poets temperament, had felt the
wound most deeply.
The day on which Garfield was shot
was bright, warm and beautiful. He
was on his way to the station to 60,
with members Of his cabinet, to New
York and New England. He had been
particularly cheerful during the drive
to the station, and was walking with
springy step and well-raised head
when the pistol shots rang out. The
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