democrat, would never vote for a whig, and rather than allow the antiDouglas factions to miss their opportunity to place a representative in the United States senate to neutralize Douglas there, Mr. Lincoln generously told his friends on the tenth ballot to vote for Congressman-elect Trumbull.

HOW TRUMBULL WAS ELECTED.

Lincoln's followers obeyed and Lyman Trumbull bore off the prize ɔn the tenth ballot by the close vote of 51 to 47, the Douglas democrats voting for Governor Mattison. Archibald Williams, the whig opponent of Lincoln mentioned by Representative Henderson, later had coals of fire heaped upon his head by Lincoln. When the latter became president one of his first acts was to appoint Mr. Williams as United States district judge for the state of Kansas.

MURDER OF LINCOLN.

Johnson Brigham tells the story of the murder of Lincoln as follows in the Chicago Record-Herald:

Intense as is the indignation of this people, and of the world as well, over the "deed accursed" which resulted in the death of President McKinley, and deep as is the general sorrow over the nation's and the world's loss, happily there were no serious complications resultant therefrom, and consequently there was no consternation when the end came.

The killing of President Lincoln in the midst of the general rejoicing over peace, after four years of awful war, was to this people both a shock and a fierce menace. Though the war was over, the period of reconstruction was just ahead. President Lincoln had long borne the burden of a struggle unparalleled in magnitude. The burden had been lifted. The cause of the Union-his cause-had grandly triumphed. His rugged strength had overcome both ridicule and censure; his magnanimity had made his former foes his friends; his demonstrated brain power, his rare soul qualities, and his remarkable devotion to public duty had won for him the love of his people and the admiration of the onlooking world. To him the people of the North had turned for deliverance from the new and unmeasurable perils.

PEOPLE LEFT LEADERLESS.

Suddenly bereft of the one safe leader all trusted, when the shot was fired that left them leaderless, their first fierce indignation and deep grief left them with a sinking of heart over the awful possibilities of the situation.

Let me present in outline a memory picture of that horrible night of nights and the days of gloom which followed as that picture is brought

back to me by the recent memory-stirring tragedy-the accuracy of which outline I have tested by reference to letters then written by me.

On my way down Tenth street on the night of that fateful 14th of April I observed an unusual throng in front of Ford's Theater. My first intimation of the tragedy was a woman's exclamation: “Oh, it is terrible!"

"What has happened?" I asked.

"My God, boy!" exclaimed the woman; "haven't you heard? They've killed the President!"

Seeing a tall, broad-shouldered man gesticulating, I drew near. A late comer, who had heard only part of his story, said: "Begin again and tell us all about it."

STORY OF THE TRAGEDY.

Stepping up on the curbstone, the man began: "Well, to begin at the beginning, I was sitting in the gallery right where I could see what was going on in the President's box. About 9 I saw him come in—him. and his wife and some young couple I didn't recognize. When the audience saw him, such a hand-clapping and hurrahing you never heard. It stopped the play. The President bowed to the audience from the box and took his seat; then he turned and said something to his wife that made her smile, and then the play went on again."

"But how about the shooting?"

"I've just got to that. 'Twasn't long before I heard a pistol shot. First I thought it was part of the play; but when I noticed the actors looking toward the President's box I knew something had happened.

MRS. LINCOLN SCREAMED.

"Then I heard Mrs. Lincoln scream; and then I saw a man break away from the young man in the box and jump down onto the stage. Just as he jumped his spur caught in one of the flags and he fell. But he was on his feet again quicker'n a flash, and, turning toward the audience, he shouted something I couldn't quite understand; and then ran behind the scenes, limping as if he'd been hurt.

"There in the box sat the President, his head dropped forward as though he'd fainted; his wife trying to bring him to, and crying and moaning as if her heart would break.

"I rushed downstairs and into the dress circle. A man at the door tried to stop me, but I shook him off, and a minute more I was wedged into the crowd in front of the box door. Some one shouted, 'Gentlemen, stand back and give him fresh air,' and then he asked if any body had any stimulants. Then they carried the President out, across the street to Peterson's, yonder."

"Could you see his face as they carried him out?"

"Yes, I was that close to him"-measuring the distance with his

hands.

"What do you think? Is there any hope?"

Tears started from the man's eyes as he answered: "I don't think; I know."

Then some one asked: "Have they caught the villain yet?”
No one answered.

HUNTED FOR ASSASSIN.

"I believe I can find him, if the police can't," said the tall man, starting for the alley.

A score or more of us followed this born leader of men. We explored every shed, cellarway and passageway in the whole block; but, as the reader knows, the assassin was then well on his way to meet his awful fate.

Finally, abandoning our search, we took our stand, with hundreds of others, in front of the Peterson house. Every little while some one would appear at the door to answer the bell or send a messenger for something. Every time the door opened there was a general movement toward the doorsteps, but the movement was soon checked by the ominous shake of the head, which told us there was no hope.

On the Tuesday following the sad Good Friday the east room of the executive mansion, where lay the remains of the President, was thrown open to the public. All day a slow-moving line of mourners extended from the entrance far down the driveway and into the

avenue.

NO SUGGESTION OF HORROR.

The serene expression on the pale face in the coffin gave no suggestion of the horror of that last moment of consciousness. I fancied there remained a trace of the smile with which the President had received our enthusiastic greeting four days before his death, on the occasion of his return from Richmond.

The funeral occurred the next day. I vividly recall the long procession slowly moving from the White House to the capitol, between dense masses of humanity, all strangely silent. I can still feel the impressive silence of the dimly lighted rotunda, relieved only by the shuffling of many feet as the line filed past the open casket.

But why should I attempt to narrow this world-including sorrow within the limits of the nation's capital? As your older readers sadly remember, along the way from Washington to Springfield the people gathered in an almost unbroken line, and the tolling of bells was well