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Abraham Lincoln Comes Home Seventy-five years ago Ahruhum Lincoln, first martyred President of the United States, was brought back to Illinois, the state which had sent him to the nations capital four years before. These pictures, pertaining to that sorrowful journey, were made by Ira M. Hough, a leading photographer in Chicago during the Civil war period and the early seventies. They were found about a year ago by his son, Edward O. Hough, in an old trunk that had not been opened for many years. They are. pit'dished here (some of them for the first time in any newspaper) by courteiy of Fred erick Gillespie, author of “Trails and Shrines of Abraham Lincoln," who owns the original negatives. : : .. ■ *■■*■ :\-"' v .-,• •■ * ; \ *s j y-'/ V- ->; ’ . t'j jV V/.^ , 'v ■v'' > ' ;i \|;,. On a May morning in 1865 cabinet members, generals of the Union army and statesmen of high and low degree gathered at the home of Abraham Lincoln at Eighth and Jackson streets hi Springfield, 11*1., to await there the arrival of the funeral cortege bearing the body of the Great Emancipator. (Photo by Edward Hough). .. R ■'*~-*** / * : * st v- i *- iws^W3 ' Out to Oak Ridge cemetery on the morning of May 4 moved the funeral procession. There the doors of a receiving vault stood open—“ Unveil Thy Bosom, Faithful Tomb” chanted a tearful choir. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust ...” intoned a clergyman, standing on the speakers’ platform (at the left of the tomb). Then the body of Illinois’ great son was laid to rest in this temporary vault. (Photo by Edward Hough). } 1 m S&Mt % ■BaHfflf-y sjr % IPmMP : 4^3JSHBiM33§£a gjpt^y:^^ In this black-plumed hearse the body of Abraham Lincoln was borne through the streets of Chicago before being taken to Springfield. There a similar vehicle, drawn by six black horses and followed by “Old Bob,” his j favorite horse, riderless, bore him to Oak Ridge cemetery. (Photo by Hough) m p: bi ■ b> isga. i mp.-, v kM' 4 :>m 1 WS& A- *- Today the body of Abraham Lin- S5 sts in lllis memorial tomb iu ' Oak Ridge cemetery in Springfield. 1 J **•”“* shrine visited annually by ! I pore than 200,000 people. 1 1 'x ? i ' f ' •. v> <'' if &s*§ j.mrnfimm&'£miir _..£ “Rest in Peace, Noble Soul, Patriot Heart,” “We Honor Him Dead Who Honored Us While Living” and “Faithful to Right, a Martyr to Justice’’ read the inscriptions oh this memorial arch erected in Park Row ia Chicago. Beneath it was a dais where the coffin lay during the brief cero monlefe before It #as escorted to the Courthouse. (Photo by Hough.) BfeiaiMgte pPsW •. M li| I mm f n JHOk S§|P . jgj||||j; On April 10, 1865, Alexander Gard ner, a Washington photographer, took this pictnre—the last photo, graph ever made of Lincoln. THE KEY WEST CITIZEN V Seventy-Five Years Ago This Month The Whole World Was in Mourning for America's First Martyred President ■■ • ■'..-V IT 1 /!' - . ~, , l , - - •■ ;*■■■■ —■ . ,„ e-srJ * ,4k is* **■ S**? v<- i > -Hi • i f| £\ x !% i ’ }■* i ~ ■mmeSSsi if % . •.; I-. Ji'l SLagf* ■ J -'ml , - sS'l w* •■)*& —MIL, HBr rit li v.--v f - V; & - Wm* *zGaif+ *;;-if ,M| ' > *F* *< s a *yBF A j—' -*-■ • I “STOP THAT MAN!”—John Wilkes Booth flees across the stage of Ford’s theater in Washington after firing the shot which ended the life of Abraham Lincoln. (From a drawing which appeared in Harper’s Weekly, April 29, 1865). By ELMO SCOTT WATSON (Released by Western Newspaper Union.) IT IS the evening of April 14, 1865—Good Friday. On the stage of Ford’s theater in Washington the fa mous actress, Laura Keene, is playing in a delightful com edy, “Our American Cousin.” Joining in the laughter that sweeps through the audience from time to time is a gaunt, I sad-faced man sitting at ease in a high-backed, satin-up holstered rocking chair in an upper stage box. Abraham Lincoln is forgetting for a few minutes the crushing re sponsibilities which he, as Chief Executive of a nation torn asunder in civil war, has been bearing for four long years. The third act of the play begins. The President leans I over to whisper something to Mrs. Lincoln who sits beside him. Neither the Lincolns nor Maj. Harry R. Rathbone and a Miss Harris, who accom panied them to the theater, notice that a dark-moustached young man has slipped through the door at the rear of the box and is now standing behind the President, i The next moment there is the i muffled sound of a shot. It is unnoticed by the players on the stage or the audience, still chuck ling over the last funny line they have heard. But the President’s head drops forward on his breast. Startled, Major Rathbone looks around. Through the smoke he sees the dark young man with a pistol in his hand and hears him mutter something which sounds like “Freedom!” The major leaps to his feet and grapples with the intruder, who slashes at him with a knife, tears loose from the offi cer’s grasp and springs to tne front of the box. As he vaults over the railing, His spur catches in an American Sag which drapes the front of the ©ox. He drops heavily to the stage with one leg doubled under Him, then scrambles to his feet. With blood streaming from his j bounded arms, Rathbone rushes ‘ io the front of the box. “Stop that man! Stop him!” he ! shouts. “The President has been shot!” But everyone is too stunned to move for a moment. The young i man, waving aloft the bloody knife, drags himself across the stage and disappears in the wings. But before he does so, the startled actors recognize in the white face and the black eyes blazing with fanatical hatred the familiar features of one of their own profession John Wilkes Booth. All this has taken place in less tune than it takes to tell it. The next moment Ford’s theater is a pandemonium of screaming women and shouting men, shov ing, pushing, breaking chairs, crashing through railings and trampling upon each other as they surge toward the stage or try to climb up to the box where the moaning Mrs. Lincoln is support ing her stricken husband and Ma | jor Rathbone is trying vainly to : open the door which the assassin ! had barred from the inside. Now the soldiers of the Presi dent’s guard come bursting into the theater and with fixed bayonets and drawn pistols they charge SUBSCRIBE FOR THE CITIZEN—2Oc WEEKLY. _____ , :!?... 5 t i > • IN SPRINGFIELD—Outside the old Globe tavern,, where Abra ham Lincoln and Mary Todd spent their honeymoon, members of the martyred President’s cabinet and oth?r dignitaries awaited the arrival of the funeral train in Lincoln’s home town. the milling crowd. Their hoarse shouts of “Clear out! Clear out, you sons of hell!” rise above the tumult as they drive the half crazed audience out of the the ater. Meanwhile Rathbone has suc ceeded in unbarring the door to the box and several people, among them a surgeon, rush in. They see the tall form of the President slumped forward in his chair, his sad eyes closed, never to open again. Someone brings a shutter, tom from a building near by, and they lay his gaunt form upon it. They carry him out of the theater to the house of Charles Peterson across the 6treet. Ford’s theater is empty, de serted now. Its curtain has been rung down upon the comedy, “Our American Cousin” —and upon one of the greatest trage dies in American history. BJU/r Death at 7:22 A. The next morning Washington newspapers carried this story; ! . “The body of President Lin coln, who died from an assassin’s outlet at t :z2 o ciock tnts morn ing, was removed from the Peter son residence opposite Ford’s the ater to the executive mansion in a hearse and wrapped in the American flag. It was escorted by a small squad of cavalry and by Gen. Augur and other military officials on foot. A dense crowd accompanied the remains to the White House, where a military guard excluded the people, allow ing none but persons of the house hold and personal friends of the deceased to enter. Gen. Grant arrived here at 2 o’clock in a spe cial train from Philadelphia. His presence tends somewhat to allay the excitement.” Leaf through the pages of James G. Blaine’s “Twenty Years in Congress,” published in 1886, and read there this description of the events which followed: “The remains of the late Presi dent lay in state at the execu tive mansion tor four days. The entire city seemed as a house of mourning. The martial music which had been resounding in glad celebration of . the national triumph had ceased; public edi fice and private mansion were alike draped with the insignia of grief. “Funeral services, conducted by the leading clergymen of the city, were held in toe east room on Wednesday, fee 19th of April. Amid the solemn tolling of church bells, and the still more solemn thundering of minute guns from the vast line of fortifications which had protected Washington, the body, escorted by an impos ing military and civic procession, was transferred to the rotunda of the Capitol; ' 3 “The day was observed throughout the Union as one of I fasting and prayer. Services in the churches throughout the land i were held in unison with the serv- 1 ices at the executive mansion, and were everywhere attended with exhibition of profound per sonal grief. The South in Sorrow. “In all the cities of Canada business was suspended, public meetings of condolence with a kindred people were held, and prayers were read in the churches. “Throughout the Confederate states, where war had ceased but peace had not yet come, the peo ple joined in significant expres sions of sorrow over the death of him whose very name they had been taught to execrate. “Early in the morning of the 21st the body was removed from the capitol and placed on funeral car which was to trans nort it to its final resting place 1 in Illinois . . . The train which ! moved from the national capital was attended on its course by extraordinary manifestations of grief on the part of the people.” As for the story of that sorrow ful journey westward, no one has ever told it better than Carl Sand burg, poet and Lincoln biogra pher. The closing words of his masterpiece “Abraham Lincoln: The War Years,” (published this year by Harcourt, Brace and company) words whose stark simplicity remind one of such writings as the Gettysburg Ad dress—are these: “There was a funeral. “It took long to pass its many given points. “Many millions of people saw j it . . . “The line of march ran seven teen hundred miles. “Yes, there was a funeraL “From his White House In Washington—where it began— they carried his coffin, and fol lowed it nights and days for twelve days . . . “Bells tolling, bells sobbing the requiem, the salute guns, cannon rumbling their inarticulate thun der. “To Springfield, Illinois, the old home town, the Sangamon near by, the New Salem hilltop near by, for toe final rest of the cher ished dust. “And the night came with great quiet. “And there was rest. “The prairie years, the war rears, were over.” it# h | *jV h t\' Chapter 35 Death Strikes Again WHEN Adrianne came upstairs again I could see that she’d been crying, but passing the door, she looked in and I thought she seemed relieved. She beckoned to Mary Ann and they went into the apartment together. I tried to take a nap. The short rations and lack of sleep hadn’t improved my looks. I don’t stand up very well under excitement There were dark shadows under my eyes and I looked pretty drawn around the mouth. With Mr. Whitefield and Louise Lathrop both in the hospital and Norton guarding the house, I felt as though there was nothing to fear—at least for the present I was mistaken. For about half an hour I dozed and then sat up quickly, wakened by a noise. It seemed to come from Richard’s apartment overhead. There were footsteps somewhere upstairs and then a heavy thud as though something or someone had fallen. My breath was coming in quick, short gasps. I slipped into my frock and opened the door to the hall. The house was quiet except for the murmur of voices from the front apartment. Evidently they’d heard nothing. So perhaps I’d imagined the sounds. Nevertheless I decided to go upstairs and investigate. All of the doors were closed on the third floor and the hall was 1 dark and shadowy. I tried the door to Richard’s apartment, but it was ; locked, and I pressed my ear to the I keyhole, but couldn’t hear anyone | inside. The artist’s apartment was un locked, but after a hasty search I could see nothing out of the way except that his water colors were the toy store variety for children, and his heavy blue overcoat was there, thrown over a chair. That left only Mrs. Evans’ apart ment up in the attic. I went up the short flight of stairs and knocked : at the door lightly, thinking she might be in, but there was no an swer. Then I thought I heard | James whine. 1 tried the door. It 1 was unlocked. I pushed it open a couple of inches and peered cau ; tiously in the room. The blinds were drawn and the light was so dim it was difficult to see. Evidently Mrs. Evans was out working, so I thought it would be all right to investigate a little fur ther. I tried to push the door open, but it stuck. I pushed a little harder, then forced myself into the room to see what kept it from opening. James was lying in the middle of the room. He whined when I came in and tried to get to his feet, but sank back on the floor with a i whimper. And then I looked behind the i door. On the floor I saw a figure, a body with arms thrown out, sprawled there lifelessly. It was Mrs. Evans. Screams IMUST have screamed. Yet the sounds that I heard seemed to I come from far off, from another person. I clutched at the door, I know, and tried tp get out of the ! room. And then I must have screamed again, because I heard footsteps, then Dirck telling me that it was all right, and, taking me by the arm, he led me into the hall. Going down the stairway I was dimly conscious that Adrianne and Mary Ann were standing in the hall. Then Norton rushed up the stairway with Mr. Kimball and Ishi. But their faces made no defi nite impression. It seemed like a I dream. I stumbled into my room and Dirck made me lie down while he | ran down to the shop for Mr Kim ball’s brandy. And after I drank ; it, he called Mary Ann to sit with i me while he went upstairs. We didn't even talk while he was gone, and by the time he got back j I was Sitting up and feeling more like myself. But Dirck was very | much upset. He closed the door and | stood there, leaning against it “Mrs. Evans wasn’t murdered,” he said. “They think it was a heart attack.’* I swallowed. “She’s dead. I though?” He nodded. “Chris,” he said, his 1 voice quiet, yet terribly convinc ing, “I know who caused it, but I can’t pin it on the person without proof. She wasn’t murdered, but someone hit James. He must have been knocked unconscious. If only . . He jerked his head up. Then without another word he rushed out of the room and down the stairs, leaving Mary Ann and me gasping at each other. “Adnanne’s clear of this," she said unexpectedly. “Why, what happened?" I And then she told me about Whitefield. He was still in the hos- I pital and he was under arrest and so far they couldn’t pin the mur ders on him. But he was a fence for stolen pictures. "What did Adrianne have to do with it?” I asked. “He was paying her to stay in ! his apartment evenings to answer j m|| telephone and pretend that he was there or had just stepped out o* something like that The night Joan was murdered he was out and Adrianne was up there alone He gave her money to keep quiet Chicken Thievery— With Qualifications (By AMlat*l Prtu) PUEBLO, Colo., April 12. Stealing chickens is a ease of grand larceny in Colorado, re gardless of the value of the poul try, if the theft occurs at night i If the thievery takes place in day -1 light the general larceny law ap FRIDAY, APRIL 12, 1940 about It so the police wouldn’t get on to this picture business. He car ried on all of it over at the other apartment" Then Dirck rushed in very much excited. “It wasn’t suicide,” he said. He sat down on the stool by the fireplace. “Which wasn’t?" I asked, a lit tle tired. ' “Richard.” Mary Ann stood up slowly. “How do you know that?” “The autopsy. There’s a contu sion on the side of his head that didn’t come from falling out of the window. It came from a blow, a blunt instrument" Then he leaped off the stool. “Sit tight” he called. “I’ll be back.” I had no intention of ever get ting up again. The last shock seemed to have left my legs per manently weakened. We could hear him run upstairs, and this time he went to Rich ard’s apartment The Sergeant I thought must have given him keys to all of the apartments. Dirck didn’t come back for al most an hour. We waited. It was pretty awful. Mary Ann and I gave up any pretense at conversation. We just sat there and smoked one cigarette after another. And I tried to figure out just what connection she’d had with Joan and Richard. Then finally Dirck came back in again. “I believe I’ve found that blunt instrument," he said as he sank into a chair. “Richard had a pair of heavy brass candlesticks. One is marked with his own and Sarah’s fingerprints, but the other has been wiped clean. The Ser geant let Norton help me. I think it's pretty important'* ’Dangerous Game’ TV/fARY ANN’S face was white. iVI “js that what killed him?” she whispered. Dirck nodded. “They are pretty sure it did. The rest of it was just a cover.” I bit my lip. “Then he was—he was thrown out of the window?” “Yes,” Dirck said quietly, his blue eyes on mine reassuringly. “And the same person who did that frightened Mrs. Evans to death.” Sometime during that night while we were sleeping the body of that boy had gone hurtling past my window. It seemed more than I could bear. There was no use being melodramatic about the things that had happened. I’d tried to avoid that, but now it seemed a little too much for me. With a shiver I buried my face in my hands, trying to get that horrible picture out of my mind. Somehow Richard’s death seemed worse than Joan’s. I suppose it was because we’d become fairly well acquainted with him. Then Mary Ann gasped. “I’m so glad.” I looked up and Dirck was eye ing her strangely. "It was worry ing you?” She nodded. I hadn’t the slight est idea what either of them were driving at. Then Mary Ann got up and walked to the window. “I thought it was my fault. I thought he’d committed suicide on account of me.” “Skip it,” Dirck said in a hard voice. ‘ You played a pretty dan §erous game, but you have the ergeant buffaloed and no one else knows about it. I’d keep out of his apartment, though. He hasn’t any thing valuable up there.” He got up again. “I must see Mr. Kimball now.” Mary Ann followed him out of the room, leaving me, as usual, without the remotest idea of what was going on. I was very glad to be alone for awhile. I took a hot shower and dressed slowly, won dering all the while what would happen next. I had just finished dressing when a knock sounded at the door and Dirck rushed in again, still very much excited. “In a few minutes everyone will come in here,” he said. I was annoyed. “Why doesn’t the Sergeant rent a hall?” “Steady there. Chris," he said. “This is important You don’t mind, really, do you? This room is the largest. I’ve asked all of the people in tjje house to meet here." “I’m delighted.” I snapped. But he paid no attention to me and left again, turning up about five minutes later followed by the entire household, or what re mained of it. They came in like sheep, herding together uneasily. These inquisitions were getting tiresome. I didn’t think I could stand up under another one. Dirck was the only one who seemed to have any energy left He walked around, drawing up chairs, his eyes darting about the room. Mary Ann and Adrianne seated themselves on the couch with James who had followed them in. He was whimpering dismally. When Sarah came in, she held him on her lap. “Who’s going to look after him now?” she asked in a loud whisper. Everyone shivered and no one answered her. Mr. Kimball took the large chair by the window, but he jumped up immediately when Tim Lathrop came in. He was looking a little better, though his head was still bandaged. It seemed too bad to drag the poor man in on Mrs. Evans’ death. He took the chair Sr the window reluctantly and r. Kimball sat down on tht stool by the fireplace. plies, and it stipulates the value ;of any stolen property must ex jceed S2O; otherwise it’s a case of petty larceny. The quirk in the Colorado law was uncovered recently after of ficers solved a chicken stealing case by following a trail of feathers from coop to loot. New York City has 403 public playgrounds.