We had written this portion of our work with feelings of gratitude to the brave men who achieved the glorious victory over the rebellious armies of the South, and looked forward to the time when Abraham Lincoln in triumph could repeat his words, uttered long before the surrender of Lee’s army: “_When the rebellion is crushed, my work is done._” That work was done, and four millions of people were rescued from slavery; not alone from the fact of any determined opposition to the institution as it was and existed under the Constitution, but the effect of the rebellion itself. Freedom under the administration of Abraham Lincoln became a reality, what before was but a name,—a shadow! He had just reached that point: his labor was nearly done, armies had surrendered, and the power of the government fully sustained. The shout of gratitude went up from the four points of our country, North, South, East, and West, and was carried to other nations with a rapidity unequalled in telegraphic or steam history. In the midst of this rejoicing, at a time when every heart throbbed with pleasurable emotions and a nation’s gratitude was about being manifested by brilliant illuminations and rejoicings, the demon of hell sent a fiend forth to destroy the life which had given a new one to our nation. Our country was an Eden on the morning of the fatal day whose evening shrouded it in the deepest gloom. All nature was joyous, all men happy save those who inaugurated the rebellion and looked upon the downfall of slavery as the end of an institution upon which they sinned and grew rich,—vampire-like living on the blood of their fellow-creatures! Abraham Lincoln stood in the garden, the Eden of our country, the Adam of a new order of things,—a recreated world! The tree of liberty had been planted, its apples had been eaten eighty years before, and the curse of slavery followed. But now the tree was clear of its “Dead Sea fruit,” which had withered its branches; anew it blossomed, anew the rich, ripe fruit of freedom loaded its stems, and hung suspended,—bright jewels on a living tree. It was, is, and ever will be the tree of knowledge to a free and independent people, the golden fruit of all that is good, whose roots were watered by the tears of the grateful, and whose soil was enriched by the blood of those who died in defending it. Abraham Lincoln stood in this garden, the man of the people, as was the first man of God. There came up from the four corners of our land in lightning flashes the congratulations of twenty-five millions of _free_ people. Proudly there he stood; the smile on his face was lighted up by the sunshine of his heart. Then it was that a wretch, whose vocation and associations had totally demoralized him, crept into this Eden, wherein all was joy and happiness,—his vile nature, envying a nation’s return to peace, aimed to destroy it. The name of this serpent was J. Wilkes Booth, the tool of Southern chivalry, the assassin by whose hand Abraham