CHAPTER XXX.

MR. LINCOLN had reached the pinnacle of his life. By careful and painful steps he had mounted from the foot of the ladder of American society to its topmost round. He had done this by the forces of his nature and character, without adventitious aids, or favoring circumstances. He had accomplished the greatest work for his country and for mankind that bad ever been committed to a mortal to perform. A great nation had been saved from wreck by his hands; a race had been disenthralled by his word and his policy; and a popular government had been established in the faith and affections of its subjects, and in the respect of the governments of the world. His enemies had been silenced, his friends had been reassured, his motives and his policy had been vindicated, and his person had come to be regarded with tender affection by tens of millions of men. Up to him were wafted the acclamations of millions of freemen. Across the ocean came appreciative and plauditory words from other continents. Benedictions were breathed upon him by multitudes of humble people whom he had enfranchised. Is it strange that the instincts of his own logical mind should forecast death as the next logical step in such a course?

Throughout all the later months and years of the war, he had freely said that he did not expect to outlast the rebellion; but in the flush of triumph,-in his large, loving, and liberal plans for the good of the people whom the fortunes of war had left at his feet,-in his dreams of the future union and har

mony of the states,-he forgot this, and was hopeful and happy. He talked to his friends, his cabinet, and his family cheerfully of the future, and gratefully of the past. He had no resentment to gratify, no revenge to inflict, no malicious passion that clamored for indulgence. The thought of being able to prove to the people of the South that he owed them no illwill, and the determination to deal with them as gently as would be for the public safety, filled his magnanimous spirit with the sweetest satisfaction.

It is hardly to be supposed that the possibility of assassination was ever long absent from his mind, during the four years of his presidency. The threats began before he left Springfield for Washington. The attempt to assassinate him was made upon the train that bore him from his home. It was repeated upon that which bore him from Cincinnati. He ran through the meshes of a conspiracy against his life at Baltimore. He was in the constant receipt of threatening letters; and these were kept in a package by themselves, appropriately labeled. He did not permit these, however, to trouble him, regarding them as only the malicious missives of bullies and cowards. He undoubtedly regarded himself as always in a dangerous position, though the fact had no tendency to make him careful of himself. He reasoned upon this, as upon other subjects, and could never see that anything would be gained by his death. He had no comprehension of the malice that would delight in his assassination, as a measure of revenge. He supposed that every man would require some rational purpose to be answered by so terrible a crime. "If they kill me," said he, on one occasion, "the next man will be just as bad for them; and, in a country like this, where our habits are simple, and must be, assassination is always possible, and will come if they are determined upon it." He went to and from the War Department with perfect freedom; drove out to the Soldiers' Home, his summer residence, and back at night, often in an open carriage, alone. He walked the streets of Washington at night, with only an unarmed companion, who trembled with the apprehension of the possible consequences of such

an exposure. Mr. Seward, in reply to a letter from Hon. John Bigelow, the American consul in Paris, wrote under date of July 15th, 1864: "There is no doubt that, from a period anterior to the breaking out of the insurrection, plots and conspiracies for the purposes of assassination have been frequently formed and organized." Mr. Bigelow had reported to Mr. Seward a plot which had become known abroad. Mr. Seward added: "Assassination is not an American practice or habit; and one so vicious and so desperate cannot be engrafted into our political system. This conviction of mine has steadily gained strength since the civil war began. Every day's experience confirms it." Notwithstanding Mr. Seward's theory, plots were formed against his own life, as well as that of Mr. Lincoln-plots, indeed, embracing more than these two persons, and extending to nearly all the prominent men in the government and in its military service. General Grant and General Sherman were both the unconscious objects of deadly conspiracies. It is now known that, not only in the States, but in Canada and Europe, plots of this character were concocted; and it is believed that, on one occasion, the President actually took poison, in the drugs that were prescribed for him by his physician, and prepared in one of the shops of the city.

Secretary Seward, even before he came so near to death through one of these conspiracies, was compelled to give up his theory, and to acknowledge that he and the President were in positive danger.

The morning of the fourteenth of April was spent by Mr. Lincoln mainly in interviews with his friends. Among those who called was Speaker Colfax, who was about setting out upon an overland journey to the Pacific coast, a journey which has since been satisfactorily accomplished; and to him the President entrusted a verbal message to the miners, assuring them of his friendliness to their interests, and telling them that their prosperity was identified with the prosperity of the nation. General Grant, it will be remembered, was in the city; and he was invited to be present at the cabinet meeting

held during the day. In public and social duties the day passed away; and in the evening Mr. Colfax came again. George Ashmun of Massachusetts also came in, and to him Mr. Lincoln gave the following little note in pencil-the last words he ever wrote:

"Allow Mr. Ashmun and friend to come in at 9 A. M. to-morrow. "A LINCOLN."

Mr. Lincoln and General Grant were the lions of the day; and the manager of Ford's theater, with a keen eye to business, had not only invited them to witness that night the representation of "Our American Cousin," but announced them both as positively to be present. The Washington papers of the fourteenth contained the following "personal notice:"

"Lieutenant-general Grant, President and Mrs. Lincoln, and ladies, will occupy the state box at Ford's theater to-night, to witness Miss Laura Keene's company in Tom Taylor's 'American Cousin.""

General Grant did not desire to attend, and so left the city. The President was equally disinclined to the entertainment; but, as his presence and that of General Grant also had been pledged to the people, he saw that there would be great disappointment if he should fail them; and, when Mrs. Lincoln entered the President's room to inquire what decision he had arrived at, he said that he had concluded to go. He invited both Mr. Ashmun and Mr. Colfax to accompany him, but both declined, pleading other engagements; and Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln, attended to the carriage by Mr. Ashmun, left without other company, and drove directly to the house of Senator Harris, where they took in Miss Harris, a daughter of the Senator, and Major Rathbone, a son of the Senator's wife, who happened to be in at the time. The party reached the theater at twenty minutes before nine o'clock, to find the house filled in every part; and, as they passed to their seats in the private box reserved for them, the whole assembly rose and cheered them, with the most cordial enthusiasm. This

*Judge C. P. Daly of New York.

demonstration was intended as an expression of good-will, and as a popular congratulation on the victories that had brought the rebellion to a close. The President bowed to the audience, took his seat, and was soon afterwards absorbed in the scenes of mimic life upon the stage. Here let us leave him, to trace the movements of another person.

At half-past eleven o'clock, on the morning of the fourteenth, John Wilkes Booth, a young actor who had been openly disloyal throughout the war, visited Ford's theater, where he was informed that a box had been taken for the President and General Grant. Then he went to a stable, and engaged a high-strung mare for a saddle-ride, which he proposed to take in the middle of the afternoon. From the stable he proceeded to the Kirkwood Hotel, where he sent up to Vice-president Johnson a card, bearing the words: "I don't wish to disturb you; are you at home?" To this, his signature was appended; and it drew from Mr. Johnson only the response that he was very busily engaged. At four o'clock, he called for the mare, and rode away, leaving her at last at a point convenient for his further purposes. In the evening, he took her from her hiding-place, and rode to the theater. Summoning one Spangler, a scene-shifter, he left the animal in his charge, to be held until he should return. Then he ascended to the dress-circle, looked in upon the stage and the audience, and gradually worked his way through the crowd packed in the rear of the dress-circle, toward the box occupied by the Presidential party. This box was at the end of the dress-circle, next the stage; and was reached by passing in the rear of the dress-circle, to a door opening first into a dark, narrow passage, and then by two doors opening from the passage. This passage was contrived so that the box might be made a double one, when occasion required, by securing facilities for a double entrance, an inside sliding partition completing the arrangement. To the entrance of this passage, Booth forced himself; and, after showing a card to the President's servant, and saying that Mr. Lincoln had sent for him, he passed into the passage, and fastened the door behind