But I must leave these speculations, and come to the theme I have
assign'd and limited myself to. Of the actual murder of President
Lincoln, though so much has been written, probably the facts are yet
very indefinite in most persons' minds. I read from my memoranda,
written at the time, and revised frequently and finally since.
The day, April 14, 1865, seems to have been a pleasant one throughout
the whole land--the moral atmosphere pleasant too--the long storm,
so dark, so fratricidal, full of blood and doubt and gloom, over and
ended at last by the sun-rise of such an absolute National victory,
and utter break-down of Secessionism--we almost doubted our own
senses! Lee had capitulated beneath the apple-tree of Appomattox. The
other armies, the flanges of the revolt, swiftly follow'd. And could
it really be, then? Out of all the affairs of this world of woe and
failure and disorder, was there really come the confirm'd, unerring
sign of plan, like a shaft of pure light--of rightful rule--of God? So
the day, as I say, was propitious. Early herbage, early flowers, were
out. (I remember where I was stopping at the time, the season being
advanced, there were many lilacs in full bloom. By one of those
caprices that enter and give tinge to events without being at all a
part of them, I find myself always reminded of the great tragedy of
that day by the sight and odor of these blossoms. It never fails.)
But I must not dwell on accessories. The deed hastens.
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