The Chief Magistrate of thirty, millions of people--beloved, honored,
revered,--lay in the pent up closet of a play-house, dabbling with his
sacred blood the robes of an actress.

As soon as the confusion and crowd was partially overcome, the form of
the President was conveyed from the theater to the residence of Mr.
Peterson, on the opposite side of Tenth street. Here upon a bed, in a
little hastily prepared chamber, it was laid and attended by
Surgeon-General Barnes and other physicians, speedily summoned.

In the meanwhile the news spread through the capital, as if borne on
tongues of flame. Senator Sumner, hearing at his residence, of the
affair took a carriage and drove at a gallop to the White House, when he
heard where it had taken place, to find Robert Lincoln and other members
of the household still unaware of it. Both drove to Ford's Theater, and
were soon at the President's bedside. Secretary Stanton and the other
members of the cabinet were at hand almost as soon. A vast crowd,
surging up Pennsylvania avenue toward Willard's Hotel, cried, "The
President is shot!" "President Lincoln is murdered." Another crowd
sweeping down the avenue met the first with the tidings, "Secretary
Seward has been assassinated in bed." Instantly a wild apprehension of
an organized conspiracy and of other murders took possession of the
people. The shout "to arms!" was mingled with the expressions of sorrow
and rage that everywhere filled the air. "Where is General Grant?" or
"where is Secretary Stanton!" "Where are the rest of the cabinet?" broke
from thousands of lips. A conflagration of fire is not half so terrible
as was the conflagration of passion that rolled through the streets and
houses of Washington on that awful night.

The attempt on the life of Secretary Seward was perhaps as daring, if