that of one who had put the foot down firm, and so are the eyes, which
look as calm as slumber. The collar is short and awkward, turned over
the stiff elastic cravat, and whatever energy or humor or tender gravity
marked the living face is hardened into its pulseless outline. No corpse
in the world is better prepared according to appearances. The white
satin around it reflects sufficient light upon the face to show us that
death is really there; but there are sweet roses and early magnolias,
and the balmiest of lilies strewn around, as if the flowers had begun to
bloom even upon his coffin. Looking on uninterruptedly! for there is no
pressure, and henceforward the place will be thronged with gazers who
will take from the sight its suggestiveness and respect. Three years
ago, when little Willie Lincoln died, Doctors Brown and Alexander, the
embalmers or injectors, prepared his body so handsomely that the
President had it twice disinterred to look upon it. The same men, in the
same way, have made perpetual these beloved lineaments. There is now no
blood in the body; it was drained by the jugular vein and sacredly
preserved, and through a cutting on the inside of the thigh the empty
blood vessels were charged with a chemical preparation which soon
hardened to the consistence of stone. The long and bony body is now hard
and stiff, so that beyond its present position it cannot be moved any
more than the arms or legs of a statue. It has undergone many changes.
The scalp has been removed, the brain taken out, the chest opened and
the blood emptied. All that we see of Abraham Lincoln, so cunningly
contemplated in this splendid coffin, is a mere shell, an effigy, a
sculpture. He lies in sleep, but it is the sleep of marble. All that
made this flesh vital, sentient, and affectionate is gone forever.

The officers present are Generals Hunter and Dyer and two staff
captains. Hunter, compact and dark and reticent, walks about the empty
chamber in full uniform, his bright buttons and sash and sword