The murdered President was quickly carried from the theatre to a house across the street and placed upon a bed. Surgical aid was at once obtained, but an examination at once showed that there was no hope of life. Mr. Lincoln's eyes had not opened, nor had consciousness returned at all, and they never did. The ball was a heavy one, from what is called a Derringer pistol, a short single-barreled weapon with a large bore. It had passed clear through the brain, and lodged against the bone of the orbit of the left eye, breaking that bone. It is almost certain that Mr. Lincoln suffered no pain after being shot, as the injury was of a nature to destroy conscious life. His exceedingly strong constitution and tenacity of life maintained respiration and circulation for a remarkably long time, but he died the next morning at about half past seven. Of the particulars of that great national mourning which bowed the whole land, it is not needful to speak. Like many parts of that great history of which it formed a portion, there were often points in it of a peculiar and symbolic power, which rose to the sublime. Such was the motto--"Be still, and know that I am God"--which spoke from the walls of the New York depot when amid the hush of weeping thousands, the solemn death car entered. The contrast between the peaceful expression on the face of the weary man, and the surging waves of mourning and lamentation around him was touching and awful. Not the least touching among these expressions of national mourning was the dismay and anguish of that poor oppressed race for whose rights he died. A southern correspondent of the New York Tribune, the week following the assassination, wrote: "I never saw such sad faces, or heard such heavy heart-beatings, as here in Charleston the day the news came. The colored people were like children bereaved of a parent. I saw one old woman going up the streets, 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! Oh Lord! O Lord! Massa Sam's dead! Massa Sam's dead!' 'Who's dead, Aunty?' 'Massa Sam's dead!' she said, not looking at me, and renewing her lamentations. 'Who's Massa Sam?' said I. 'Uncle Sam,' she said, 'O Lord! O Lord!' Not quite sure that she meant the President, I spoke again: 'Who's Massa Sam, Aunty?' 'Mr. Lincum!' she said, and resumed wringing her hands, mourning in utter hopelessness of sorrow."