"Hopeton" near Washington
April 16th, 1865
Dear Father:
It
is Friday night and we are at the theatre. Cousin Julia has just told me that
the President is in yonder upper right hand private box so handsomely decked
with silken flags festooned over a picture of Washington. The young and lovely
daughter of Senator Harris is the only one of the party we can see, as the flags
hide the rest. But we know that “Father Abraham” is there; like a father
watching what interests his children, for their pleasure rather than his own. It
has been announced in the papers he would be there. How sociable it seems, like
one family sitting around their parlor fire. How different this from the pomp
and show of monarchial Europe. Every one has been so jubilant for days, since
the surrender of Lee, that they laugh and shout at every clownish witticism. One
of the actresses, whose part is that of a very delicate young lady, talks of
wishing to avoid the draft, when her lover tells her “not to be alarmed for
there is no more draft,” at which the applause is long and loud. The American
cousin has just been making love to a young lady, who says she will never marry
but for love, yet when her mother and herself find he has lost his
The Stage and Presidential Box at Ford's Theater, A Photo taken by Mathew Brady's company for the trial of the conspirators in Lincoln's assasination.
The
report of a pistol is heard....Is it all in the play? A man leaps from the
President’s box, some ten feet, on to the stage. The truth flashes upon me.
Brandishing a dagger he shrieks out “The South is avenged,” and rushes
through the scenery. No one stirs. “Did you hear what he said, Julia? I
believe he has killed the President.” Miss Harris is wringing her hands and
calling for water. Another instant and the stage is crowded—-officers,
policemen, actors and citizens, “Is there a surgeon in the house?” they say.
Several rush forward and with superhuman efforts climb up to the box. Minutes
are hours, but see! they are bringing him out. A score of strong arms bear
Lincoln’s loved form along. A glimpse of a ghastly face is all as they pass
along....Major Rathbone, who was of their party, springs forward to support
[Mrs. Lincoln], but cannot. What is it? Yes, he too has been stabbed. Somebody
says “Clear the house,” so every one else repeats “Yes, clear the
house.” So slowly one party after another steals out. There is no need to
hurry. On the stairs we stop aghast and with shuddering lips—-”Yes, see, it
is our President’s blood” all down the stairs and out upon the pavement. It
seemed sacrilege to step near. We are in the street now. They have taken the
President into the house opposite. He is alive, but mortally wounded. What are
those people saying. “Secretary Seward and his son have had their throats cut
in their own house.” Is it so? Yes, and the murderer of our President has
escaped through a back alley where a swift horse stood awaiting him. Cavalry
come dashing up the Street and stand with drawn swords before yon house. Too
late! too late! What mockery armed men are now. Weary with the weight of woe the
moments drag along and for hours delicate women stand clinging to the arms of
their protectors, and strong men throw their arms around each other’s necks
and cry like children, and passing up and down enquire in low agonized voices
“Can he live? Is there no hope?” They are putting out the Street lamps now.
“What a shame! not now! not to—night!” There they are lit again. Now the
guard with drawn swords forces the crowd backward. Great, strong Cousin Ed says
“This unnerves me; let’s go up to Cousin Joe’s.” We leave Julia and her
escort there and at brother Joe’s gather together in an upper room and talk
and talk with Dr. Webb and his wife who were at the theatre. Dr. W. was one of
the surgeons who answered the call. He says “I asked Dr. _____ when I went in what it was, and putting his
hand on mine he said, ‘There!’ I looked and it was ‘brains.’”
After
a while Julia and Mr. W. came in and still we talked and listened to the cavalry
rushing through the echoing street. Joe was determined to go out, but his wife
couldn’t endure the thought of any one going out of the house. It was only in
the early hours of the dawn that the gentlemen went to lie down, but Julia sat
up in a rocking chair and I lay down on the outside of the bed beside Cousin
Ginny for the rest of the night, while Cousin Joe and his wife’s young brother
sat nodding in their chairs opposite. There were rooms waiting for us but it
seemed safer to be together. He was still living when we came out to Hopeton,
but we had scarcely choked
To-day
I have been to church through the same streets and the suburbs with the humble
cottages that were so bright that night shone through the murky morning, heavy
with black hangings, and and on, down the streets only the blackness of
darkness. The show of mourning was as universal as the glorying had been, and
when were surrounded by the solemn and awe—stricken congregation in t church,
it seemed as though my heart had stopped beating. I fee like a frightened child.
I wish I could go home and have a good cry. I can’t bear to be alone. You will
hear all this from the papers, but I can’t help writing it for things seen are
mightier than things heard. It seems hard to write now. I dare not speak of our
great loss. Sleeping or waking, that terrible scene is before me.”
Letter also found in Jim Bishop, The Day Lincoln Was Shot. NY: Harper & Brothers, 1955, 198-199, 212..
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