Lincoln In Indianapolis

George S. Cottman


Indiana Magazine of History, Volume 24, Issue 1, pp 1-14

Article Type:

Download Source:

Lincoln In Indianapolis

GEORGE S. COTTMAN, Indianapolis

With the ever-increasing volume of literature about Abraham Lincoln it would seem as if nothing further could be said except in the way of repetition; nevertheless much new matter will doubtless be yet uncovered. For example, an historical account of the great emancipator's presence in Indianapolis—twice when living, once when dead—has never been given with fulness or accuracy, and the tradition that exists reveals both omissions and errors.


As regards omissions, virtually no one now living knew until recently that Lincoln had delivered a speech in the Hoosier capital prior to 1861. The fact that he did was discovered some months since by Earl W. Wiley, and also, independently, by Miss Olga Ruehl, of the Indiana State Library staff, when examining the files of the IndianapolisDaily Atlas, a now forgotten newspaper. The date of the speech was September 19, 1859; the place of delivery, the old Masonic Hall; the occasion, an echo of the state campaign in Ohio, where both Lincoln and Stephen A. Douglas had been stumping as a sort of aftermath to their famous joint debate of the year before. Lincoln, on his way from Springfield to Ohio, passed through Indianapolis, as is shown by a fuller examination of the Atlas files. That seems to have inspired the Republicans there to secure him; an invitation followed him to Columbus. It was, accepted, and a little later, when on his way homeward from Cincinnati, he gave the Indianapolis address by way of good measure, as it were. It is somewhat curious that this visit and speech should have dropped wholly out of sight, until last year, no historian or biographer, so far as I can find, making any mention of it. The address was not reprinted verbatim, but reported in the form of a running account and even in that condensed form occupies three columns.1


It is well known to all Lincoln students that Indianapolis was included in the itinerary of the president-elect in his journey from Springfield to Washington, preceding his inauguration in 1861. In the Indiana city the event is commemorated by a bronze tablet set in the wall of the Claypool Hotel, just beneath the spot where he spoke from the balcony of the old Bates House, the predecessor of the Claypool. Confusion has arisen from the fact that the distinguished guest made two Indianapolis speeches during that visit, though in some accounts he is credited with but one. It happens that the quotation on the tablet mentioned is from Iris first remarks, delivered in another place, while the Bates House speech, now almost forgotten, was the one that created all the newspaper comment at the time. Had those who sponsored the tablet and those who have written about it taken the pains carefully to examine the contemporary newspaper files of the city they could have ascertained what was done and where. This article is an attempt at such a study of the contemporaneous evidence.

To appreciate fully the brief and restrained utterances of Lincoln during that memorable journey from Springfield to Washington one must consider the situation. Prior to that he had taken part as a statesman in the questions of the day—

  • 1 This has been spoken of as a "lost speech" of Lincoln's in the newspaper notices following the discovery. A comparative study shows that in large part it was a repetition of the ideas expressed in preceding addresses in Ohio at Columbus and Cincinnati, though the Atlas account has in it matter not to be found in those speeches. It has recently been published in Earl W. Wiley, Four Speeches by Abraham Lincoln (Columbus, Ohio, 1927).
questions that under the stress of political passions had grown so acute as to threaten to disintegrate the nation. Then with his election to the presidency in the fall of 1860 his position in the maelstrom suddenly became that of supreme leader for weal or woe. Nothing was to be expected of his predecessor, who still held the helm, but who was simply swamped by the magnitude of affairs, and so the eyes of the country were turned on the president-elect, noting his every act and word. He had already given evidence of statesmanship, at least in a theoretical way, but in the role that lay before him with its untried ways he was an unknown quantity, as any other man would have been. What were his views on these questions that were racking the country? How would he meet them? What qualities would he show? Of all Lincoln's traits none was more marked than his sense of responsibility. Aside from the propriety of reserve while his predecessor was still in office it would be very easy for him to make a mistake, especially as a hostile press lay ready to pounce upon his every word and act. Hence in the series of talks when on his way to take the presidential seat he always spoke cautiously, and repeatedly said in so many words that he did not wish to speak prematurely. The Indianapolis speeches, which were his first utterances worthy of note after leaving Springfield, were of this character.2

The Lincoln special train was scheduled to reach Indian-

  • 2. Since writing the above I have found in the IndianapolisNews of February 12, 1897, an anonymous article describing the Lincoln visit of 1861. The writer, seemingly, drew upon personal recollections as well as from records, and the article has the ring of authenticity. It has in it some information additional to that above set forth, which is here appended.

    "During the latter part of January, 1861, the Indiana legislature passed a joint resolution appointing a committee composed of Senators George K. Steele, of Parke; Walter March, of Delaware; J. D. Conner, of Wabash; Aaron B. Line, of Franklin, and Allen Hamilton, of Allen; Representatives David C. Branham, of Jefferson; David M, Jones, of Vermillion; James C. Veach, of Spencer; R. A. Cameron, of Porter; John A. Hendricks, of Jefferson; J. H. Stotsenberg, of Floyd, and M. A. O. Packard, to invite Mr. Lincoln to become a guest of the state on his way to Washington. Mr. Lincoln accepted the invitation and named February 11 as the day on which the committee could meet him at Indiana's boundary line and escort him to the city as it desired."

    On February 4 a public meeting of citizens was held at the old court house and appointed a committee to represent Indianapolis and cooperate with the state authorities in the reception. This committee consisted of Mayor Samuel B. Maxwell, A. H. Conner, James Blake, A. H. Davidson, Jacob Vandegrift, Dr, J. S. Bobbs and William Wallace.

    At the state line the Lincoln train "was greeted by thousands of people from Indiana and Illinois, who had assembled in the open prairie, with cheers and waving of flags, hats and handkerchiefs." General Steele, the chairman of the joint legislative committee made a speech of welcome; Mr. Lincoln replied, and the trains moved on amidst shouts and the waving of flags, and other demonstrations. All along the way from Springfield to Indianapolis the crowds were gathered to greet and if possible, to hear a few words from the man of the hour.

apolis by way of Lafayette at 5 P.M., February 11, and a committee of prominent citizens were delegated to meet it at the Illinois state line as a preliminary welcome. There was much interest in the event, and all day long the city was crowded with people, many of whom, says one newspaper, had come "fully fifty miles in wagons, in carriages and on horseback." It was said to have been the greatest gathering ever in the city up to that time. For some reason the point of debarkation was fixed, not at the Union Depot, but at the intersection of West Washington and Missouri Streets, where the Lafayette track crosses Washington. Here, as the time of arrival approached, was a crowd that jammed the streets and filled all available windows, house-tops and even telegraph poles. There were also segregated the elements for a grand parade— carriages, two brass bands, the Indianapolis National Guards, the Indianapolis Zouaves and other organizations. Governor Oliver P. Morton, in a barouche to which was attached a matched team of four beautiful white hourses decorated with plumes and flags, was stationed at the crossing ready to receive the president-elect with a speech of welcome. Others in attendance were state, county and city officials, members of the legislature, visiting committees from the legislatures of Kentucky and Ohio, and municipal officers from Columbus and Cincinnati.

Promptly at five o'clock the special arrived, stopping with its rear end at the crossing, and Mr. Lincoln at once appeared upon the rear platform. Governor Morton then arose and, standing in his barouche, spoke as follows:

SIR:—In behalf of the people of Indiana I bid you welcome. They avail themselves of this occasion to offer their tribute of high respect to your character as a man and a statesman, and your person to honor the high office to which you have been elected.

In every free government there will be differences of opinion, and these differences result in the formation of parties; but when the voice of the people has been expressed through the forms of the Constitution all patriots yield to it obedience. Submission to the popular will is the essential principle of republican government, and so vital is this principle that it admits of but one exception, which is, revolution. To weaken it is anarchy; to destroy it is despotism. It recognizes no appeal beyond the ballot box, and while it is preserved Liberty may be wounded but never slain. To this principle the people of Indiana, men of all parties, are loyal, and they here welcome you as the chief magistrate-elect of the republic.

When our fathers framed the Constitution they declared it was to form a more perfect union, establish justice and secure the blessings of liberty to themselves and their posterity, and for these considerations we proclaim our purpose to maintain that Constitution inviolate as it came from their hands.

The Union has been the idol of our hopes, the parent of our prosperity, our shield of protection abroad, and our title to the respect and consideration of the world. May it be preserved, is the prayer of every patriotic heart in Indiana, and that it shall be, the determination. You are about to enter upon your official duties under circumstances at once novel and full of difficulty, and it will be the duty of all good citizens, without distinction of party, to yield a cordial and earnest support to every measure of your administration calculated to maintain the Union, promote the national prosperity, and restore peace to our distracted and unhappy country. Our government which but yesterday stood for the admiration of the world, is today threatening to crumble into ruins, and it remains to be seen whether it possesses a living principle, or whether, in the fulness of time, the hour of its dissolution is at hand.

But we are full of confidence that the end is not yet—that the precious inheritance from our fathers will not elude our grasp or be wrested from us without a struggle—that we are but passing through one of those civil commotions that mark the history of every great nation, and that we shall emerge from the present gloom into the bright sunshine of peace and fraternity, and march forward with accelerated speed in the paths of prosperity and power.

This was not merely an address of welcome. On the contrary it may be said that Morton somewhat strained the occasion by introducing the politics of the hour, and he obviously sent out a feeler designed to challenge Lincoln's reticence. The response was hardly what was expected, being in its nature deep beyond popular anticipation. Lincoln met the challenge, yet committed himself to nothing, and he placed the question raised by Morton squarely where it belonged. The vital principles underlying the Union represented something deep-rooted in the character of the American people, and action concerning it must have its origin in that source. It was for the people to recognize that, and not to depend too much on any leader with his possible fallacies. It is worthy of comment that the editors of the day seemingly failed to appreciate the note he struck, for there was very little or nothing said about it, though today it ranks among Lincoln's better-known speeches. As to its effect on his audience, very few, according to the IndianapolisSentinel, were able to hear it, and the applause given him at its end "was altogether on suspicion of what the sentiment might be." The speech ran:

GOVERNOR MORTON and FELLOW CITIZENS of the State of Indiana:—

Most heartily do I thank you for this magnificent reception, and while I cannot take to myself any share of the compliment thus paid, more than that which pertains to a mere instrument, an accidental instrument, perhaps I should say, of a great cause, I yet must look upon it as a most magnificent reception, and as such most heartily do thank you for it. You have been pleased to address yourself to me chiefly in behalf of this glorious Union in which we live, in all of which you have my hearty sympathy, and, as far as may be within my power, will have, one and inseparably, my hearty consideration. While I do not expect upon this occasion, or until I get to Washington, to attempt any lengthy speech, I will only say that to the salvation of the Union there needs but one single thing—the hearts of a people like yours. When the people rise in mass in behalf of the Union and the liberties of this country, truly it may be said "The gates of hell cannot prevail against them." In all trying positions in which I shall be placed—and doubtless I shall be placed in many such—my reliance will be placed upon you and the people of the United States; and I wish you to remember, now and forever, that it is your business and not mine; that if the Union of these states and the liberties of this people shall be lost it is but little to any one man of fifty-two years of age, but a great deal to the thirty millions of people who inhabit these United States, and to their posterity in all coming time. It is your business to rise up and preserve the Union and liberty for yourselves, and not for me.

I desire they should be constitutionally performed. I, as already intimated, am but an accidental instrument, temporary, and to serve but for a limited time; and I appeal to you again to constantly bear in mind that with you, and not with politicians, not with presidents, not with office-seekers, but with you is the question: Shall the, Union and shall the liberties of this country be preserved to the latest generations?

During these proceedings a cannon had been booming a salute of thirty-four guns—one for each state in the Union. And now the guest of the city and state was taken into the barouche, along with the governor and two or three other notables. The four white horses attached to the vehicle made such a handsome appearance that Mr. Lincoln complimented the driver, Elijah Hedges on his team, little thinking that four years later these same horses, with the same driver, would draw him once more through the streets of Indianapolis, he then in his coffin. Carriages had been provided for the Lincoln retinue, but the ill-mannered "local politicians" took possession of some of them, in consequence of which about half of the visiting party had to walk to the hotel, baggage in hand. Among these was Robert Lincoln, the eldest son of the family, to whom had been entrusted a certain black bag, which bag contained an article of unique value, and its adventures introduced into the occasion an interesting episode which will be mentioned later.

Arrangements had been made for a grand street parade, to be led by the customary brass band and the local military companies, and this, after some confusion, got started, the line of march being eastward on Washington Street to Pennsylvania, thence to Ohio, on Ohio to Illinois, and down Illinois to the Bates House, the chief hostelry of the city. The crowd in the streets about the hotel was so dense that the Lincoln party could hardly get in. After the arrival of the chief celebrity there was a clamorous demand for a speech, in response to which Lincoln delivered his second address, from a balcony overlooking the street corner.

There are many discrepancies in the various statements about this speech. Nicolay and Hay label it as one made before the Indiana legislature; 3 but Lincoln did not visit our legislature, though his intention had been to do so. Henry J. Raymond says it was given before members of the legislature who waited upon him in a body at the hotel that evening and in response to an address of welcome by their representative;4 but this is wholly at variance with the contemporary press reports, the most reliable documents we have in the case. The first speech, made from the rear of the train, bears the internal evidence of being impromptu and called forth by Morton's speech. Mr. Jesse Weik in his book on Lincoln5 states that John Nicolay once showed him the original manuscript of the Bates House speech (the second speech), which had been prepared beforehand, and was marked "For Indianapolis" in Lincoln's

  • 3 John G. Nicolay and John Hay (editors) in Complete Works of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. VI, pp. 112—15 (Gettysburg Edition, New York, 1905).
  • 4Life and Public Services of Abraham Lincoln, pp. 133—34 (New York, 1865).
  • 5The Real Lincoln, a Portrait, pp. 312—13 (Boston and New York, 1922).
own hand. On the other hand Charles Dennis, a once well known Indianapolis reporter, stated in a newspaper article some years ago, that Berry Sulgrove, war-time editor of the Journal, had shown him (Dennis) a manuscript of the balcony speech written in Lincoln's hand, that had been given to Sulgrove for copy—which illustrates the perplexities that sometimes accompany historical investigation. It is certain that both the Journal and the Sentinel secured both speeches some way, for they appear verbatim in the two papers. The following is the balcony speech:

FELLOW-CITIZENS of the State of Indiana:—I am here to thank you much for this magnificent welcome and still more for the generous support given by your state to that political cause which I think is the true and just cause of the whole country and the whole world.

Solomon says there is "a time to keep silence," and when men wrangle by the mouth with no certainty that they mean the same thing while using the same word, it perhaps were as well if they would keep silence.

The words "coercion" and "invasion" are much used in these days, and often with some temper and hot blood. Let us make sure, if we can, that we do not misunderstand the meaning of those who use them. Let us get exact definition of these words, not from dictionaries but from the men themselves, who certainly deprecate the things they would represent by the use of words. What, then, is "Coercion"? What is "Invasion"? Would the marching of an army into South Carolina without the consent of her people, and with hostile intent toward them be "invasion"? I certainly think it would; and it would be "coercion" also if the South Carolinians were forced to submit. But if the United States should merely hold and re-take its own forts and other property, and collect the duties on foreign importations, or even withhold the mail from places where they were habitually violated, would any or all of these things be "invasion" or "coercion"? Do our professed lovers of the Union, but who spitefully resolve that they will resist coercion and invasion, understand that such things as these on the part of the United States would be coercion or invasion of a state? If so, the idea of means to preserve the object of their affection would seem exceedingly thin and airy. If sick, the little pills of the homeopathists would be much too large for it to swallow. In their view the Union as a family relation would seem to be no regular marriage but a sort of "free-love" arrangement, to be maintained only on "passional attraction."

By the way, in what consists the special sacredness of a state? I speak not of the position assigned to a state in the Union, by the Constitution; for that, by the bond, we all recognize. That position, however, a state cannot carry out of the Union with it. I speak of that assumed primary right of a state to rule all which is less than itself, and ruin all which is larger than itself. If a state and a county in a given case should equal in extent of territory and equal in number of inhabitants, in what, as a matter of principle, is the state better than the county? Would an exchange of names be an exchange of rights upon principle? On what rightful principle may a state, being not more than one-fiftieth part of the nation and soil and population, break up the nation and then coerce a proportionally larger subdivision of itself in the most arbitrary way? What mysterious right to play tyrant is conferred on a district of country with its people, by merely calling it a state?

Fellow-citizens, I am not asserting anything; I am merely asking questions for you to consider. And now allow me to bid you farewell.

Of the two speeches here quoted, this last one, as already said, created far and away the most press comment, for the reason that the questions of coercion and invasion loomed large in the dissension that was splitting the nation, and the people were especially sensitive to them. Guarded and tentative as Lincoln's language was, the opposition papers pictured him as a man ready to plunge the country into war. Of the many excerpts that might be quoted the mildest was this from the IndianapolisSentinel: "We had hoped that Mr. Lincoln would sympathize with the conservative element of his party, but we fear we are doomed to be disappointed. When he attempts to govern the country his views will probably undergo a change." The LouisvilleJournal comment later was that the speech was like "sporting with fire-balls in a powder magazine."

The story of the black traveling bag that had been entrusted to Robert Lincoln comes in chronologically at this point. That bag contained Mr. Lincoln's precious inaugural address, which had been written and printed with the utmost secrecy at Springfield. One can imagine the embarrassment to its author in case of its loss. The little flurry caused by the carelessness of Master Robert, who did not seem to be much burdened with a sense of responsibility, is thus described by Miss Helen Nicolay in her Personal Traits of Abraham Lincoln:

When at last Lincoln had time to think of the little black bag Robert was not to be found. Feverish inquiries developed that he was off with "the boys," and still more time elapsed before he could be located and brought back. To his father's impetuous questions he re- plied with a bored and injured virtue that having arrived in the confusion, with no room to go to, he had handed the bag to the hotel clerk, after the usual manner of travelers.

"And what did the clerk do with it"? his father asked.

"It is on the floor behind the counter," was the complacent answer.

Visions of his inaugural in all the morning papers floated before the president-elect as without a word he threw open his door and began making his way through the crowded halls to the office. One single stride of his long legs swung him across the clerk's desk, and he fell upon the small mountain of luggage accumulated behind it. Taking a little key from his pocket he began delving for black bags, and opening such as the key would unlock, while bystanders craned their necks, and the horrified clerk stood open-mouthed. The first half dozen yielded an assortment of undesired and miscellaneous articles; then he came upon his own, inviolate, and Robert had no more porter's duty during the rest of the trip.

Miss Nicolay's authority for this colorful ancedote was, presumably, her father, who was with Lincoln as his secretary.

The dinner at the Bates House that evening seems to have been in the nature of a banquet, as Francis McLaughlin, of Portland, now dead, used to tell with pride that he, as a guest, sat in "the third place to the right of Mr. Lincoln." A feature after the dinner was a grand public reception held on the second floor of the hotel when uncounted numbers of people filed through and shook the hand of "Honest Abe" until he was fairly worn out.

The next morning—this, incidentally, was his fifty-second birthday—Mr. Lincoln breakfasted with Governor Morton, whose house stood on the site of the present traction terminal sheds, on Market Street, and returned to the hotel, the Sentinel says, without making an anticipated visit to the legislature. The crowd, still milling about the hotel, demanded another speech, but Lincoln excused himself and, instead, Solomon Meredith, of Wayne County, introduced from the balcony the Reverend J. W. T. McMullen, who made the address, and who, from his personal resemblance to Lincoln, was mistaken by many for him.

The Lincoln party had some difficulty getting to the station by reason of the demonstrative crowd. At 11 A.M. the special train pulled out amid the shouting of the multitude, many persons even running down the track after the receding cars. The train was decorated elaborately with flags and red, white and blue bunting, with an image of the American eagle amid flag draperies over the platform of the rear car. The smokestack of the locomotive was encircled with thirty-four white stars on a blue field, and on its front the engine bore pictures of all the presidents, with George Washington conspicuous. Flags, ribbons and evergreens gaily ornamented boiler, framework and tender.

A Democratic estimate of Lincoln at that period sounds rather interesting as we read it now. It appeared as an editorial in the Sentinel of February 12.

Mr. Lincoln is a theorist, a dreamer and, perhaps, an enthusiast in his conviction. He is not a practical man, and for that reason will be deficient in those qualities necessary to wisely administer the government. He lacks will, purpose, that resolute determination necessary to success. For those reasons Mr. Lincoln will be, an uncertain man and today, with a full knowledge of his views on the present conditions of our public affairs, it will be impossible to predict what his action will be. At a time when it requires a man of nerve, will and purpose to administer the government successfully, it is most unfortunate that the administration of our public affairs should be confined to such hands.


A melancholy sequel to this pre-presidential visit with its enthusiasm and animation was the, coming of the assassinated Lincoln in his coffin, to lie in state for one full day in the rotunda of the Indiana capital. Four years had passed—four years packed with history for the American people. The war was over. The leader of the nation had made his immortal record, and now it was sealed and glorified for all time by his sacrificial death. As states and cities, four years before, had requested the. privilege of honoring the man in whom their hopes lay, so now they demanded the opportunity to pay the final tribute to him who had fulfilled their hopes, and so he went from Washington back to Springfield by much the same route as he had traveled from Springfield to Washington, the way now draped with the emblems of woe.

Sunday, April 30, 1865, was a, unique day in the history of Indianapolis. There have been other times when the city displayed the somber hues of mourning, but on this occasion everything conspired to deepen the sense of gloom which spread like a pall over the nation. For days before the coming of the funeral train the solemnity was fed by preparations for the sad event. The principal streets were hung with sable decorations, Washington Street in particular, from East Street to the State House, being literally shrouded in black, with arches, similarly draped, spanning Washington at Pennsylvania and Illinois Streets. Stores and public buildings generally made appropriate displays, while the Capitol and its surroundings presented the most impressive decorations of all. The fence about the grounds, a canopy spanning the south approach, and the eight great pillars of the Capitol portico were festooned and wrapped with black and white. The building within was converted into a mausoleum. The entrances were hung with long, heavy black curtains that swept to the floor, shutting out the exterior world. The walls of the open halls and rotunda were hung with black and with garlands of laurel, myrtle and evergreen, and the darkened interior was dimly lighted by the flames of the gas chandeliers. All this, be it repeated, represented days of preparation, the effect of which was to key the public mind to the culminating gloom of the funeral day.

On the eve of that day a special train filled with representative citizens of the state, among who were Governor Morton and his suite, left Indianapolis for Richmond to meet the funeral train, much as, four years before, a committee had met the president-elect at the Illinois line, and at seven o'clock on Sunday morning, April 30, they all steamed into the Union Depot at Indianapolis.

The interest was profound and widespread, and the streets were crowded with people, many of them from afar. As Lincoln's presence here on his presidential trip had drawn a record-breaking multitude, so the dead Lincoln brought even more. And now, as if nature conspired with man to make the occasion somber to the last degree, the day throughout was dismal and rainy, and the thousands of unsheltered people, wet and bedrabbled with mud, spent a forlorn day to be long remembered.6

  • 6 The funeral car bore, alone with the remains of the late president, those also of his eon Willie, who had died at Washington some three years before, as a reporter of the IndianapolisJournal tells us, though no biographer, so far as I know, makes mention of the fact.

A procession through the city had been intended, but owing to the weather, the route traveled included only Illinois and Washington Streets, between the station and the Capitol. The coffin was received from the car by a local guard of honor and placed in a hearse that had been especially built for this purpose, and which was drawn by the same four beautiful white horses that have already been spoken of as arousing the admiration of Mr. Lincoln at his reception in '61. These were now caparisoned with black cloth fringed with silver lace, and each was led by a groom. Two lines of soldiers in uniform, from camps in Indianapolis, faced each other all along the way, guarding the center of the streets from the dense crowds on either side, and between these lines the cortege passed through a pelting rain, to the music of a solemn dirge played by the City Band, while the bells of the city tolled mournfully. At the main Washington Street entrance to the Capitol grounds, a long archway or canopy had been built, and as the coffin was here taken from the hearse a choir of sixty voices, led by Professor Benjamin Owen, sang a dirge from the burial service of the Episcopal church, while the body was borne into the Capitol. There, immediately beneath the dome, it was placed on a raised dais, shrouded in black, with a canopy above falling in sable folds, the whole making a catafalque. At the head of the coffin stood a bust of the dead man, crowned with a chaplet of laurel.

From the time the State House was thrown open to the public in the morning until late that night a double line of people of all ages and conditions passed from east to west through the building for a last brief view of America's greatest son. The solemn silence within, as the throngs passed between the statue-like guards, was broken only by the tramp of countless feet muffled by new matting that had been spread upon the floor for this occasion. The dull booming of a cannon, sounding at half-hour intervals throughout the day, added its depressing note. Between 4,000 and 5,000 children, from the Sunday schools, passed through, and one large group was of colored people with a copy of the Emancipation Proclamation borne at their head, and banners with appropriate inscriptions at intervals in their midst.

On the streets, too, aside from the drapings of woe, were on every hand reminders of the sincerity of this day's demonstration and of the phenomenal regard in which the honored dead was held. Many signs and banners with inscriptions were in evidence, as this Shakesperean quotation, displayed on the Metropolitan Theatre, across the street from the State House: "Abraham Lincoln—His life was gentle and the elements so mixed in him that Nature might stand up and say to all the world, 'This was a Man.' " There were others of this character, conspicuous among them streamers attached to the street cars, each with its inscription, of which the following are samples: "Rest in peace, thou Gentle Spirit; souls like thine with God inherit Life and Love." "He has gone from Works to his Reward." "With Malice toward None, with Charity to All." "Thou art gone, and Friend and Foe alike appreciate thee now." "Fear not, Abraham, I am thy Shield; thy Reward shall be exceedingly great."

The State House was not closed to the public till 11 P.M. Then, last scene of all, the culmination of the dreary day, came the midnight procession back to the waiting funeral car at the depot. Again the two lines of soldiers, with arms presented, guarded the way, and every few feet a flaming torch contributed its flickering yellow glare to the murky night, the skies still weeping. Still the crowds lined the streets, and over the multitude lay a reverential hush broken only by the measured tramp of marching feet, the rumbling of wheels, and the wailing sadness of the music that led the way. To quote a Sentinel reporter: "We cannot adequately describe the sensations experienced as we witnessed the slowly-moving cortege pass by. The exhibition was terribly grand and must have been experienced to have been realized."

The State House remained decorated with its mourning emblems for thirty days. The flowers that had been strewn on the coffin were carefully preserved and made into souvenir bouquets.

Published by the Indiana University Department of History.