, of golden hue and beautiful; but it had turned to ashes. They had
been promised a place among the nations, a position of commanding
influence and fame. Cotton was the king of kings, and England, France,
and the whole civilized world would bow in humble submission to his
Majesty. That was the promise; but now their king was dethroned, their
government overthrown, their President and his cabinet vagrants, driven
from house and home to be wanderers upon the earth. They had been
promised affluence, Richmond was to be the metropolis of the
Confederacy, and Virginia the all-powerful State of the new nation. How
terrible the cheat! Their thousand-dollar bonds were not worth a penny.
A million dollars would not purchase a dinner. Their money was
valueless, their slaves were freemen, the heart of their city was eaten
out. They had been cheated in everything. Those whom they had trusted
had given the unkindest cut of all,--adding arson and robbery to their
other crimes. Thus had they fallen from highest anticipation of bliss to
deepest actual woe. The language of the Arch-Rebel of the universe, in
"Paradise Lost," was most appropriate to them:--

"'Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,'
Said then the lost Archangel, 'this the seat,
That we must change for heaven, this mournful gloom
For that celestial light?'"

Abraham Lincoln was walking their streets; and, worst of all, that
plain, honest-hearted man was recognizing the "niggers" as human beings
by returning their salutations! The walk was long, and the President
halted a moment to rest. "May de good Lord bless you, President Linkum!"
said an old negro, removing his hat, and bowing with tears of joy
rolling down his cheeks. The President removed his own hat, and bowed in
silence; but it was a bow which upset the forms, laws, customs, and
ceremonies of centuries. It was a death-shock to chivalry, and a mortal
wound to caste. Recognize a nigger! Faugh! A woman in an adjoining house
beheld it, and turned from the scene in unspeakable disgust. There were
men in the crowd who had daggers in their eyes; but the chosen assassin
was not there, the hour for the damning work had not come, and that
great-hearted man passed on to the executive mansion of the late
Confederacy.

Want of space compels us to pass over other scenes,--the visit of the
President to the State-House,--the jubilant shouts of the crowd,--the
rush of freedmen into the Capitol grounds, wher