contrasting with his dark blue uniform, gauntlets upon his hands, crape
on his arm and blade, his corded hat in his hands, a paper collar just
apparent above his velvet tips, and now and then he speaks to Captain
Nesmith or Captain Dewes, of General Harding's staff, rather as one who
wishes company than one who has anything to say. His two silver stars
upon his shoulder shine dimly in the draped apartment. He was one of the
first in the war to urge the measures which Mr. Lincoln afterward
adopted. The aids walk to and fro, selected without reference to any
association with the late President. Their clothes are rich, their
swords wear mourning, they go in silence, everything is funereal. In the
deeply-draped mirrors strange mirages are seen, as in the coffin scene
of "Lucretia Borgia," where all the dusky perspectives bear vistas of
gloomy palls. The upholsterers make timid noises of driving nails and
spreading tapestry; but save ourselves and these few watchers and
workers, only the dead is here. The White House, so ill-appreciated in
common times, is seen to be capacious and elegant--no disgrace to the
nation even in the eyes of those foreign folk of rank who shall gather
here directly.

As we sit brooding, with the pall straight before us, the funeral guns
are heard indistinctly booming from the far forts, with the tap of drums
in the serried street without, where troops and citizens are forming for
the grand procession. We see through the window in the beautiful spring
day that the grass is brightly green; and all the trees in blossom, show
us through their archways the bronze and marble statues breaking the
horizon. But there is one at an upper window, seeing all this through
her tears, to whom the beautiful noon, with its wealth of zephyrs and
sweets, can waft no gratulation. The father of her children, the
confidant of her affection and ambition, has passed from life into
immortality, and lies below, dumb, cold murdered. The feeling of