ashes.

All orders of folks were at hand. The country adjacent sent in
hay-wagons, donkey-carts, dearborns. All who could slip away from the
army came to town, and every attainable section of the Union forwarded
mourners. At no time in his life had Mr. Lincoln so many to throng about
him as in this hour, when he is powerless to do any one a service. For
once in history, office-seekers were disinterested, and contractors and
hangers-on human. These came, for this time only, to the capital of the
republic without an axe to grind or a curiosity to subserve; respect and
grief were all their motive. This day was shown that the great public
heart beats unselfish and reverent, even after a dynasty of plunder and
war.

The arrangements for the funeral were made by Mr. Harrington,
Assistant-Secretary of the Treasury, who was beset by applicants for
tickets. The number of these were reduced to six hundred, the clergy
getting sixty and the press twenty. I was among the first to pass the
White House guards and enter the building.

Its freestone columns were draped in black, and all the windows were
funereal. The ancient reception-room was half closed, and the famous
East room, which is approached by a spacious hall, had been reserved for
the obsequies. There are none present here but a few silent attendants
of the late owner of the republican palace. Deeply ensconced in the
white satin stuffing of his coffin, the President lies like one asleep.
The broad, high, beautiful room is like the varnished interior of a
vault. The frescoed ceiling wears the national shield, some pointed
vases filled with flowers and fruit, and three emblazonings of gilt
pendant from which are shrouded chandeliers. A purplish gray is the