The Life, Crime, and Capture of John Wilkes Booth | Page 7

slip away from
the army came to town, and every attainable section of the Union

forwarded mourners. At no time in his life had Mr. Lincoln so many to
throng about him as in this hour, when he is powerless to do any one a
service. For once in history, office-seekers were disinterested, and
contractors and hangers-on human. These came, for this time only, to
the capital of the republic without an axe to grind or a curiosity to
subserve; respect and grief were all their motive. This day was shown
that the great public heart beats unselfish and reverent, even after a
dynasty of plunder and war.
The arrangements for the funeral were made by Mr. Harrington,
Assistant-Secretary of the Treasury, who was beset by applicants for
tickets. The number of these were reduced to six hundred, the clergy
getting sixty and the press twenty. I was among the first to pass the
White House guards and enter the building.
Its freestone columns were draped in black, and all the windows were
funereal. The ancient reception-room was half closed, and the famous
East room, which is approached by a spacious hall, had been reserved
for the obsequies. There are none present here but a few silent
attendants of the late owner of the republican palace. Deeply ensconced
in the white satin stuffing of his coffin, the President lies like one
asleep. The broad, high, beautiful room is like the varnished interior of
a vault. The frescoed ceiling wears the national shield, some pointed
vases filled with flowers and fruit, and three emblazonings of gilt
pendant from which are shrouded chandeliers. A purplish gray is the
prevailing tint of the ceiling. The cornice is silver white, set off by a
velvet crimson. The wall paper is gold and red, broken by eight lofty
mirrors, which are chastely margined with black and faced with fleece.
Their imperfect surfaces reflect the lofty catafalque, an open canopy of
solemn alapaca, lined with tasteful satin of creamish lead, looped at the
curving roof and dropping to the four corners in half transparent
tapestry. Beneath the roof, the half light shines upon a stage of fresh
and fragrant flowers, up-bearing a long, high coffin. White lace of pure
silver pendant from the border throws a mild shimmer upon the solid
silver tracery hinges and emblazonings. A cross of lilies stands at the
head, an anchor of roses at the foot. The lid is drawn back to show the

face and bosom, and on the coffin top are heather, precious flowers,
and sprigs of green. This catafalque, or in plain words, this coffin set
upon a platform and canopied, has around it a sufficient space of
Brussels carpet, and on three sides of this there are raised steps covered
with black, on which the honored visitors are to stand.
The fourth side is bare, save of a single row of chairs some twenty in
number, on which the reporters are to sit. The odor of the room is fresh
and healthy; the shade is solemn, without being oppressive. All is rich,
simple, and spacious, and in such sort as any king might wish to lie.
Approach and look at the dead man.
Death has fastened into his frozen face all the character and
idiosyncrasy of life. He has not changed one line of his grave,
grotesque countenance, nor smoothed out a single feature. The hue is
rather bloodless and leaden; but he was alway sallow. The dark
eyebrows seem abruptly arched; the beard, which will grow no more, is
shaved close, save the tuft at the short small chin. The mouth is shut,
like that of one who had put the foot down firm, and so are the eyes,
which look as calm as slumber. The collar is short and awkward, turned
over the stiff elastic cravat, and whatever energy or humor or tender
gravity marked the living face is hardened into its pulseless outline. No
corpse in the world is better prepared according to appearances. The
white satin around it reflects sufficient light upon the face to show us
that death is really there; but there are sweet roses and early magnolias,
and the balmiest of lilies strewn around, as if the flowers had begun to
bloom even upon his coffin. Looking on uninterruptedly! for there is no
pressure, and henceforward the place will be thronged with gazers who
will take from the sight its suggestiveness and respect. Three years ago,
when little Willie Lincoln died, Doctors Brown and Alexander, the
embalmers or injectors, prepared his body so handsomely that the
President had it twice disinterred to look upon it. The same men, in the
same way, have made perpetual these beloved lineaments. There is now
no blood in the body; it was drained by the jugular