a member of their own family had been stricken down. The marts of trade were turned to houses of mourning. The transaction of business ceased. Neither rich nor poor had any heart to traffic or labour. Neighbour accosted neighbour—“Terrible! terrible!” and burst into tears. The sorrow was universal. Both old and young felt its oppressive weight.

A few weary, sad hours passed, and people began to gather in halls and churches to carry their case to the Lord. There was no help in man for such a trial. When stalwart men bear about so great a sorrow, that they meet only to speak in tears, the only relief is found at the throne of grace. And so men left their business and women their homes to gather round a common altar; rich and poor, learned and unlearned, meeting together before the Most High. There were hundreds and thousands of such assemblies on the afternoon of that sorrowful Saturday, April 15th, 1865. Words of comfort, prayers, and tears, brought some relief to the mourning people.

The next day was the holy Sabbath; and such a Sabbath! Already the symbols of grief had appeared on churches and public buildings, stores and dwelling houses. As if by a general impulse, the people everywhere began on Saturday to drape their homes and places of business with the habiliments of sorrow. The markets were exhausted of every fabric that could be used to express the sadness of human hearts. Houses of worship were crowded on Sunday with honest mourners. In pulpits heavily draped with crape, preachers discoursed upon the great sorrow, and led their sorrowful congregations to the Lord. The day will never be forgotten by the multitude who mingled their common grief.

In some localities the grief expressed itself in the form of vengeance. It assumed that form early on Saturday morning in the city of New York. Armed men gathered in the streets threatening speedy death to disloyal citizens. Their numbers rapidly increased, until fifty thousand assembled in Wall Street Exchange, bearing aloft a portable gallows, and swearing summary vengeance upon the first rebel sympathizer who dared to speak. One thoughtless fellow remarked that “Lincoln ought to have been shot long ago”; and he was struck dead instantly. The grieved and vengeful crowd seethed towards the office of the World, a disloyal paper, with mutterings of violence on their lips. It seemed scarcely possible to prevent violent demonstration. A bloody scene appeared to be imminent. At that critical moment a portly man, of commanding physique and voice, appeared upon the balcony of the City Hall, from which telegrams were read to the people, and raising his right hand to invoke silence, he exclaimed, in clear and sonorous tones:—

“Fellow-citizens,—Clouds and darkness are round about Him! His pavilion is dark waters and thick clouds of the skies! Justice and judgment are the habitation of His throne! Mercy and truth shall go before His face! Fellow-citizens! God reigns, and the government at Washington still lives!”

The effect of this serious address was magical. The raging populace subsided into repose. A hushed silence pervaded the vast assembly, when the voice of the speaker ceased, as if they had listened to a messenger from the skies. The change was marvellous. The speaker was General James A. Garfield, who became President sixteen years afterwards, and was shot by an assassin four months later! How strange that the inhabitants of that metropolis, who listened to the gifted statesman so gladly, April 14th, 1865, should be shocked by the news of his assassination on July 2nd, 1881!

No class of citizens were more sincere mourners for the illustrious dead than the coloured race. They went about the streets of Washington wringing their hands and weeping as Rachel did for her children. They gathered in groups in the streets and bewailed their loss in pitiful lamentations. Many of them appeared to be inconsolable. More sincere and profound sorrow never bowed human hearts.

A correspondent of the New York Tribune, writing from Charleston, S. C., said:—

“I never saw such sad faces or heard such heavy heart-beatings as here in Charleston the day the dreadful news came! The coloured people—the native loyalists—were like children bereaved of an old and loved parent. I saw one old woman going up the street wringing her hands and saying aloud as she walked, looking straight before her, so absorbed in her grief that she noticed no one, ‘O Lord! O Lord! O Lord! Massa Sam’s dead! Massa Sam’s dead!”