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The grief of the American people for their murdered President was beyond example deep and bitter. Perhaps for no man were there ever shed so profusely the tears of sorrow. Not in America alone, but in England too, where President Lincoln was at length understood and honored, his loss was deeply mourned. It was resolved that he should be buried beside his old home in Illinois. The embalmed remains were to be conveyed to their distant resting-place by a route which would give to the people of the chief Northern cities a last opportunity to look upon the features of the man they loved so well. The sad procession moved on its long journey of nearly two thousand miles, traversing the States of Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. Everywhere, as the funeral train passed, the weeping people sought to give expression to their reverential sorrow. At the great cities the body lay in state, and all business was suspended.

At length Springfield was reached. The body was taken to the State House. His neighbors looked once more upon that well-remembered face, wasted, indeed, by years of anxious toil, but wearing still, as of old, its kind and placid expression.

Four years ago Lincoln said to his neighbors, when he was leaving them, “I know not how soon I shall see you again. I go to assume a task more difficult than that which has devolved upon any other man since the days of Washington.” He had nobly accomplished his task; and this was the manner of his home-coming.

A week before the assassination, the bells of almost every village in the North and West had rung for joy over the fall of Richmond ; now they were heard tolling in every place, and half-mast flags were seen on every public square and village green where yesterday they were waving in victory. Those were days ever to be remembered, when strong men stood dumb in their fields and wept.


" The Patriot's Remembrances."



Sweet spring is in the air, good wife,

The bluer sky appears,
The robin sings the welcome note

He sung in other years.
Twelve times the spring has oped the rills,

Twelve times has autumn sighed,
Since hung the war clouds o'er the hills,

The year that Lincoln died.

The March wind early left the zone

For distant northern seas,
And wandering airs of gentle tone

Came to the door-yard trees;
And sadness in the dewy hours

Her reign extended wide
When spring retouched the hills with flowers,

The year that Lincoln died.

We used to sit and talk of him,

Our long, long absent son;
We'd two to love us then, good wife,

But now we have but one.
The springs return, the autumns burn

His grave unknown beside ;
They laid him 'neath the moss and fern,

The year that Lincoln died.

One day I was among the flocks

That roamed the April dells,
When Aoating from the city came

The sound of many bells.
The towns around caught up the sound,

I climbed the mountain side,
And saw the spires with banners crowned,

The year that Lincoln died.
I knew what meant that sweet accord,

That jubilee of bells,
And sang an anthem to the Lord

Amid the pleasant dells.

But when I thought of those so young

That slept the James beside, In undertones of joy I sung,

The year that Lincoln died.

And when the tidings came, good wife,

Our soldier boy was dead,
I bowed my trembling knee in prayer,

You bowed your whitened head.
The house was still, the woods were calm,

And while you sobbed and cried, I sang alone the evening psalm,

The year that Lincoln died.

I hung his picture 'neath the shelf,

It still is hanging there ;
I laid his ring where you yourself

Had put a curl of hair.
Then to the spot where willows wave

With hapless steps we hied,
And “Charley's” called an empty grave,

The year that Lincoln died.

The years

will come, the years will go, But never at our door The fair-haired boy we used to meet

Will smile upon us more.
But memory long will hear the fall

Of steps at eventide,
And every blooming year recall

The year that Lincoln died.

One day I was among the flocks

That roamed the April dells, When at the noonday hour I heard

A tolling of the bells. With heavy heart and footsteps slow

I climbed the mountain side, And saw the blue flags hanging low,

The year that Lincoln died.

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The cost of the war had been very terrible. On the Northern side, two million seven hundred thousand men bore arms at some period of the war. Of these there died in battle, or in hospital of wounds received in battle, ninetysix thousand men. There died in hospital of disease, one hundred and eighty-four thousand. Many went home wounded, to die among the scenes of their infancy. Many went home stricken with lingering and mortal disease. Of these there is no record but in the sad memories which haunt nearly every Northern home.

In nearly all civil strifes, until now, the woe which waits upon the vanquished has been mercilessly inflicted. After resistance has ceased, the grim scaffold is set up, and brave men who have escaped the sword stoop to the fatal axe. It was assumed by many that the Americans would avenge themselves according to the ancient usage. Here, again, it was the privilege of America to present a noble example to other nations. Nearly every Northern man had lost relative or friend. But there was no cry for vengeance. There was no feeling of bitterness. Excepting in battle, no drop of blood was shed by the Northern people. The great republic had been not merely strong, resolute, enduring; it was also singularly and nobly humane.

Jefferson Davis fled southward on that memorable Sunday when the sexton of St. Paul's Church handed to him General

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