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The Southern armies fought
bravely to the last, but all in vain. Richmond fell. Lincoln himself
entered the city on foot, accompanied only by a few officers and a squad
of sailors who had rowed him ashore from the flotilla in the James River,
a negro picked up on the way serving as a guide. Never had the world
seen a more modest conqueror and a more characteristic triumphal
procession, no army with banners and drums, only a throng of those who
had been slaves, hastily run together, escorting the victorious chief
into the capital of the vanquished foe. We are told that they pressed
around him, kissed his hands and his garments, and shouted and danced for
joy, while tears ran down the President's care-furrowed cheeks.
A few days more brought the surrender of Lee's army, and peace was
assured. The people of the North were wild with joy. Everywhere festive
guns were booming, bells pealing, the churches ringing with
thanksgivings, and jubilant multitudes thronging the thoroughfares, when
suddenly the news flashed over the land that Abraham Lincoln had been
murdered.


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