man a horror-stricken crowd. Secretary Windom, Secretary Hunt, Postmaster-General James and others of the party that had met to accompany the President north, were all in and out of the room sending hither and thither messengers and messages for doctors. The President's own carriage dashed off at a gallop to the White House, to the astonishment of the people on the avenue who had not yet learned the direful news. A local physician was first to arrive of those summoned. He came in breathless, in response to the awful summons, just as a mattress was brought on which to lay the wounded man. The room being uncomfortably crowded with men-in whose eyes stood tears, gathered in the first pause of their terror to offer any, every aid in their power-it was decided to remove the President to the room above.

Hardly had the mattress been laid upon the floor, when the wounded man, ever thoughtful of those nearest to him, ever forgetful of self, even while his life blood was oozing from him, turned to his friend and said:

"Rockwell, I want you to send a message to 'Crete'" (the pet name used for his wife, Lucretia). "Tell her I am seriously hurt, how seriously I cannot yet say. I am myself, and hope she will come to me soon. I send my love to her."

Was there ever anything more ineffably tender, more wonderfully gentle than this? History does not contain a similar tenderness in all its many

thousand pages! Stricken down by the assassin's bullet, in the most powerful and prosperous moment his country had known for half a century, uncertain whether he was then and there to renounce the crown he had so lately won, so proudly worn; his whole heart was turned to her, who for years had been his helpmate and his life, and he sent his love to her! As his messenger wrote down that immortal sentence, tears fell fast and free from those around who knew now, if they had never known before, how noble a man was the President-how true, how brave, how good.

During the dictation of the dispatch, Dr. Bliss, who had come from the White House, and several other physicians arrived. A minute's inspection of the wound by Dr. Bliss, an experimental probing with his finger, demonstrated that the President was terribly wounded. It was imperative he should be removed to the White House, where he could receive every attention his case demanded. An ambulance was speedily summoned. The President was brought down-stairs as gently as loving hands could carry him, and laid within it. The doctors got in, and the horses started off at a dead run for the Executive Mansion, which was reached in less than ten minutes. The members of the Cabinet and immediate associates of the President who were at the station had already reached the White House. As the President was lifted out of the ambulance, the pallor of

death stamped upon his face, he glanced upward to the windows; there were his friends, waiting, sadly, silently, fearing their beloved friend would be borne home to them dead. As he recognized them, he raised his right hand, and with a smile, which those who saw it will never forget, gave the military salute, as if he would say to them, "Long live the Republic." He was carried swiftly and gently to his own bed in an upper chamber at the south-east corner of the Executive Mansion.

Close upon his arrival, followed some friends, who hurried to the White House with blanched faces and aching hearts, fearing the worst. Soon afterward Mrs. Hunt, Mrs. James and Mrs. Windom were joined by Mrs. Blaine and Mrs. W. T. Sherman. Other friends of Mrs. Garfield quickly arrived, but were denied admittance, and the ponderous gates which lead to the Executive Mansion were closed, and armed military sentinels, as if by some fearful magic, silently took their places about the house and grounds. These troops were ordered from the garrison at the Washington Arsenal in order to relieve the regular police, whose services were needed in the city, where the crowds were rapidly increasing, angry with excitement. There was only one company of soldiers, but the glance of their bayonets flashing in the sunlight, as they walked with measured tread the several paths to which they were assigned, seemed portentous of an awful fate hanging over the Re

public, and recalled the last hours of President Lincoln, when the same astonishment and horror were reflected on the faces of the people who surged about the Executive Mansion, and watched similar silent sentries pacing under its leafy trees.

In the room above lay the President, surrounded by the most eminent physicians in Washington. He at first complained of pain in his feet more than in his arm or body, and at his own request his feet were undressed and rubbed. The doctors cut away his clothing to get at his wounds. The shot in the shoulder had passed around the bone without breaking it. The bullet which entered the back over the hips did not pass through the body, and, although the doctor probed the wound with his finger, he could not make out, with any certainty, what direction the ball had taken, nor where it was lodged. The nervous prostration, seemingly, was passing away, and the President assumed his usual composed manner, greeting members of the Cabinet, and other intimate friends who called, with a warm pressure of the hand, and with cheerful words. This cheeriness excited the strongest hopes of the surgeons that the ball had not touched any vital part, and that when he had gained sufficient strength and composure an effort might be made to find the ball. Directions were given that he should see as few persons as possible, and that he should be kept from conversation, or making any