. His wife soon
after made her last visit to him. The death-struggle had begun. Robert,
his son, stood with several others at the head of the bed. The
respiration of the President became suspended at intervals, and at last
entirely ceased at twenty-two minutes past seven o'clock."

The news of the President's assassination flashed rapidly over the
country, everywhere causing the greatest consternation and grief. The
revulsion from the joy which had filled all loyal hearts at the
prospects of peace was sudden and profound. All business ceased, and
gave way to mourning and lamentation. The flags, so lately unfurled in
exultation, were now dropped at half-mast, and emblems of sorrow were
hung from every door and window. Men walked with a dejected air. They
gathered together in groups in the street, and spoke of the murder of
the President as of a personal calamity. The nation's heart was smitten
sorely, and signs of woe were in every face and movement.

A scene which transpired in Philadelphia, the morning after the murder,
reflects the picture presented in every city and town in the United
States. "We had taken our seats," says the delineator, "in the early car
to ride down town, men and boys going to work. The morning papers had
come up from town as usual, and the men unrolled them to read as the car
started. The eye fell on the black border and ominous column-lines.
Before we could speak, a good Quaker at the head of the car broke out in
horror: 'My God! What's this? _Lincoln is assassinated._' The driver
stopped the car, and came in to hear the awful tidings. There stood the
car, mid-street, as the heavy news was read in the gray dawn of that
ill-fated day. Men bowed their faces in their hands, and on the
straw-covered floor hot tears fell fast. Silently the driver took the
bells from his horses, and we started like a hearse cityward. What a
changed city since the day before! Then all was joy over the end of the
war; now we were plunged in a deeper gulf of woe. The sun rose on a city
smitten and weeping. All traffic stood still; the icy hand of death lay
flat on the heart of commerce, and it gave not a throb. Men stood by
their open stores saying, with hands on each other's shoulders, 'Our
President is dead.' Over and over, in a dazed way, they said the fateful
syllables, as if the bullet that tore through the weary brain at
Washington had palsied the nation. The mute news-boy on the corner said
never a word as he han