solely accountable, yet his tools actually refused to obey him until they had heard from Richmond, the seat of the Rebel Government. This was written by Secretary Stanton to General Dix on April 15th, in the interval between the attack on Lincoln and his death. The entire execution of the plot evidently depended upon _news from Richmond_, and not upon Booth’s orders. Booth himself, escaping across the Potomac, “found, for some days, shelter and aid among the rebel sympathisers of Lower Maryland.” He was, of course, pursued, and, having taken refuge in a barn, was summoned to surrender. This he refused to do, and was then shot dead by a soldier named Boston Corbett, whom I have heard described as a fanatic of the old Puritan stamp. In the words of Arnold, Booth did not live to betray the men who set him on. And I can testify that there was nowhere much desire to push the inquiry _too_ far. Booth had been shot, the leading Union politicians were busy at reconstruction, and the war was at an end. But, as Arnold declares, Booth and his accomplices were but the wretched tools of the real conspirators, and it remains uncertain whether the conspirators themselves will ever in this world be dragged to light. The next day, April 15th, 1865, the whole nation knew the dreadful news, and there was such universal sadness as had never been known within the memory of man. All was gloom and mourning; men walked in the public places, and wept aloud as if they had been alone; women sat with children on the steps of houses, wailing and sobbing. Strangers stopped to converse and cry. I saw in that day more of the human heart than in all the rest of my life. I saw in Philadelphia a great mob surging idly here and there between madness and grief, not knowing what to do. Somebody suggested that the Copperheads were rejoicing over the murder--as they indeed were--and so the mob attacked their houses, but soon gave it over, out of very despondency. By common sympathy, every family began to dress their houses in mourning, and to hang black stuff in all the public places; “before night, the whole nation was shrouded in black.” That day I went from Philadelphia to Pittsburg. This latter town, owing to its factories and immense consumption of bituminous coal, seems at any time as if in mourning; but on that Sunday afternoon, completely swathed and hung in black, with all the world weeping in a drizzling rain, its dolefulness was beyond description. Among the soldiers, the grief was very great; but with the poor negroes, it was absolute--I may say that to them the murder was in reality a second crucifixion, since, in their religious enthusiasm, they literally believed the President to be a Saviour appointed by God to lead them forth to freedom. To this day there are negro huts, especially in Cuba, where Lincoln’s portrait is preserved as a hidden fetish, and as the picture of the Great Prophet who was not killed, but