fternoon paper, the little Evening Star, had scattered all over its
third page, divided among the advertisements in a sensational manner in
a hundred different places:

"'The President and his lady will be at the theatre this evening.'

"Lincoln was fond of the theatre. I have myself seen him there several
times. I remember thinking how funny it was that he, the leading actor
in the greatest and stormiest drama known to real history's stage,
through centuries, should sit there and be so completely interested in
those human jackstraws, moving about with their silly little gestures,
foreign spirit, and flatulent text.

"So the day, as I say, was propitious. Early herbage, early flowers,
were out. I remember where I was stopping at the time, the season being
advanced, there were many lilacs in full bloom.

"By one of those caprices that enter and give tinge to events without
being a part of them, I find myself always reminded of the great tragedy
of this day by the sight and odor of these blossoms. It never fails.

"On this occasion the theatre was crowded, many ladies in rich and gay
costumes, officers in their uniforms, many well-known citizens, young
folks, the usual cluster of gas lights, the usual magnetism of so many
people, cheerful with perfumes, music of violins and flutes--and over
all, that saturating, that vast, vague wonder, Victory, the nation's
victory, the triumph of the Union, filling the air, the thought, the
sense, with exhilaration more than all the perfumes.

"The President came betimes, and, with his wife, witnessed the play
from the large stage boxes of the second tier, two thrown into one,
and profusely draped with the national flag. The acts and scenes of the
piece--one of those singularly witless compositions which have at the
least the merit of giving entire relief to an audience engaged in mental
action or business excitements and cares during the day, as it makes not
the slightest call on either the moral, emotional, esthetic or
spiritual nature--a piece in which among other characters, so called, a
Yankee--certainly such a one as was never seen, or at least like it
ever seen in North America, is introduced in England, with a varied
fol-de-rol of talk, plot, scenery, and such phantasmagoria as goes to
make up a modern popular drama--had progressed perhaps through a couple
of its acts, when, in the midst of this comedy, or tragedy, or non-such,
or whatever it is to be called, and to offset