Amid the confusion, no efficient
pursuit was made. The President had been shot through the head, the
bullet passing through the brain. Unconsciousness, of course, came
instantly, and death followed in a few hours.
Eleven days later, the murderer, an actor by the name of John Wilkes
Booth, was surrounded in a barn where he had taken refuge; he refused to
come out, and the barn was set on fire. Soon afterwards, the assassin
was brought forth with a bullet at the base of his brain, whether fired
by himself or one of the besieging soldiers was never certainly known.
It is startling to contemplate the fearful responsibility which Booth
assumed when he fired that shot. So far from benefiting the South, he
did it incalculable harm, for the North was thoroughly aroused by the
deed. Thousands and thousands flocked to see the dead President as he
lay in state at the Capitol, and in the larger cities in which his
funeral procession paused on its way to his home in Springfield. The
whole country was in mourning, as for its father; business was
practically suspended, and the people seemed stunned by the great
calamity. That so gentle a man should have been murdered wakened, deep
down in the heart of the North, a fierce resentment; the feelings of
kindliness for a vanquished foe were, for the moment, swept away in
anger; and the North turned upon the South with stern face and shining
eyes.
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