e loud huzza died upon the lips. A nation suddenly paused in the midst
of festivity, and stood paralyzed with horror--transfixed with awe.

Oh, memorable day! Oh, memorable night! Never before was joy so
violently contrasted with sorrow.

At 11 o'clock at night I was awakened by an old friend and neighbor,
Miss M. Brown, with the startling intelligence that the entire Cabinet
had been assassinated, and Mr. Lincoln shot, but not mortally wounded.
When I heard the words I felt as if the blood had been frozen in my
veins, and that my lungs must collapse for the want of air. Mr. Lincoln
shot! the Cabinet assassinated! What could it mean? The streets were
alive with wondering, awe-stricken people. Rumors flew thick and fast,
and the wildest reports came with every new arrival. The words were
repeated with blanched cheeks and quivering lips. I waked Mr. and Mrs.
Lewis, and told them that the President was shot, and that I must go to
the White House. I could not remain in a state of uncertainty. I felt
that the house would not hold me. They tried to quiet me, but gentle
words could not calm the wild tempest. They quickly dressed themselves,
and we sallied out into the street to drift with the excited throng. We
walked rapidly towards the White House, and on our way passed the
residence of Secretary Seward, which was surrounded by armed soldiers,
keeping back all intruders with the point of the bayonet. We hurried on,
and as we approached the White House, saw that it too was surrounded
with soldiers. Every entrance was strongly guarded, and no one was
permitted to pass. The guard at the gate told us that Mr. Lincoln had
not been brought home, but refused to give any other information. More
excited than ever, we wandered down the street. Grief and anxiety were
making me weak, and as we joined the outskirts of a large crowd, I began
to feel as meek and humble as a penitent child. A gray-haired old man
was passing. I caught a glimpse of his face, and it seemed so full of
kindness and sorrow that I gently touched his arm, and imploringly
asked:

"Will you please, sir, to tell me whether Mr. Lincoln is dead or not?"

"Not dead," he replied, "but dying. God help us!" and with a heavy step
he passed on.

"Not dead, but dying! then indeed God help us!"

We learned that the President was mortally wounded--that he had been
shot down in his box at the theatre, and that he was not expected to
live till morning; when we returned home