In “Those Most Joyful Years,” by Albert Trundle.
The guests began to depart as the full yellow moon hung among morning stars.
In “The Washington Powers,” by D. V. Featherly.
The clouds were heavy, leaden, and low, of a dull roseate color. There was no moon. My husband and I paused to look up at the room in which young Lincoln suffered. I said a silent prayer for the health of the lad. We found the carriage and made for home, where our own children, thanks be to a merciful God, were resting peacefully.
In “One Mother Remembers,” by Abigail Service.
VI.
The last guests lingered almost until dawn. In the basement, servants worked all night to clean up, drinking leftover wine as they toiled. Hot, tired, and drunk, several of them began arguing, which led to a fistfight in the kitchen.
Von Drehle, op. cit.
I heard it said several times, in hushed whispers: it was wrong to engage in such merry-making when Death itself had made itself known at the door, and perhaps the more modest the public life at such a time, the more apposite.
In “Collected Wartime Letters of Barbara Smith-Hill,” edited by Thomas Schofield and Edward Moran.
The night passed slowly; morning came, and Willie was worse.
Keckley, op. cit.
VII.
Yesterday around three there came a considerable procession—perhaps twenty carriages and nowhere to put them—They stopped on the lawns of the houses and sat aslant on the cemetery land by the fence—And who should alight from the hearse but Mr. L. himself, whom I could recognize from his likeness—But sore bent down and sad in countenance, almost needing to be urged along, as if reluctant to enter that drear place—I had not yet heard the sad news & was momentarily puzzled but soon enough the situation being made clear I prayed for the boy & family—it has been much in the papers regarding his illness and it has had the unhappy outcome now—The carriages cont’d to arrive over the next hour until the street was impassable.
The large crowd disappeared inside the chapel and from my open window I could hear the proceedings within: music, a sermon, weeping. Then the gathering dispersed & the carriages moved off, several becoming stuck & requiring unsticking, the street & lawns being left a considerable mess.
Then today, again wet & cold, and, around two, a single small carriage arrived & stopped at the cemetery gate & again the President got out, this time accompanied by three gentlemen: one young & two OLD.—they were met at the gate by Mr. Weston & his young assistant & all went off to the chapel—Before long, the assistant being joined by a helper, they were seen to be managing a small coffin on to a handcart & off the sad party went, cart in the lead, the President & his companions plodding along behind—their destination appeared to be to the northwest corner of the cemetery. The hill there being steep and the rain continuing, it made a strange joining of somber melancholy & riotous awkwardness, the assistants struggling to keep the tiny coffin upon the cart—& at the same time all parties, even Mr. L., diligently mincing to maintain their footing on the rainslick grass.
Anyway it appears the poor Lincoln child is to be left there across the road, contrary to reports in the newspapers, which ventured that he would be returning to Illinois forthwith. They have been loaned a place in the crypt belonging to Judge Carroll, & only imagine the pain of that, Andrew, to drop one’s precious son into that cold stone like some broken bird & be on your way.
Quiet tonight, & even the Creek seems to murmur along more quietly than usual, dear Brother. The moon came out just now & lit the stones in the cemetery—for an instant it appeared the grounds had been overrun with angels of various shapes and sizes: fat angels, dog-sized angels, angels upon horseback, etc.
I have grown comfortable having these Dead for company, and find them agreeable companions, over there in their Soil & cold stone Houses.
In “Wartime Washington: The Civil War Letters of Isabelle Perkins,” compiled and edited by Nash Perkins III, entry of February 25, 1862.
VIII.
So the President left his boy in a loaned tomb and went back to his work for the country.
In “Lincoln: A Story for Boys,” by Maxwell Flagg.
Nothing could have been more peaceful or more beautiful than the situation of this tomb and it was completely undiscoverable to the casual cemetery visitor, being the very last tomb on the left at the extreme far reaches of the grounds, at the top of an almost perpendicular hillside that descended to Rock Creek below. The rapid water made a pleasant rushing sound and the forest trees stood up bare and strong against the sky.
Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.
IX.