“I have supped full on horrors”

The remarkable document here printed for the first time doubtless offers the last full ray of light that will be thrown on the events of the night Lincoln was assassinated. The conspirators’ attempt on the life of Secretary Seward is now described, with astonishingness and vividness, in the diary of his daughter.—Allan Nevins

Frances Adeline Seward (called Fanny to distinguish her from her mother, for whom she was named) wanted to be a writer. To this end, for literary practice, she began Christmas Day, 1858, shortly after her fourteenth birthday, to keep a diary. The last entry was made October 7, 1866, three weeks before her death. The result is one of the most sensitive, poignant, and sometimes amusing manuscripts to come from the Civil War period. It reveals more than the aspirations of an intelligent young woman to break the bonds of Victorianism and at the same time not to be classed “a blue stocking.” It presents a frank view of social Washington, with its constant round of calls, weekly reception days, and gala balls that were often more like work than pleasure for a statesman’s family; and an intimate one of a family regarded by contemporaries as an ideal of mutual tenderness, consideration, and affection.

One of the major problems for the Sewards was that despite their sincere attachment to each other they were rarely together. Mrs. Seward had suffered for more than twenty years from recurring attacks of neuralgia, which prostrated her for days and sometimes weeks. Excitement or fatigue brought her either a headache or a mild heart murmur. And nothing fatigued her more quickly than the duties of a politician’s wife. She detested the rigidity of Washington protocol, the oceans of cards to be acknowledged, and the fact that every pleasant day had to be devoted to calls. As her health continued to decline, she retired to the quiet of the family home in Auburn, New York.

Thus it was, in a family as divided by circumstance as the country was by war, that Fanny Seward grew to young womanhood. She “came out” in Washington society at the Secretary’s annual New Year’s Day reception in 1863, but she was not considered a “belle.” Her features were too heavy for the Victorian ideal of beauty, and her hair, though long and thick, was Indian-straight and a common shade of brown. Her luminous dark eyes, however, contrasted attractively with a pale, clear complexion. She was unfashionably tall, and aware of it. She often felt herself “awkward, stale and unprofitable.” Though trained by private tutors in the social graces of music, painting, horseback riding, and French, her achievements in these fields were never more than fair. She couldn’t dance more than a simple quadrille, and she never had a beau nor seemingly any desire for one.

Yet constant association with adults matured her quickly. She gradually overcame her shyness to the point where she could preside gracefully as hostess at formal dinners and at the weekly Wednesday receptions. If conversation turned to books or the theater, Fanny waxed enthusiastic and knowledgeable. She conversed intelligently about Dickens, Thackeray, Ruskin, Longfellow, Whittier, or the current Northern literary rage, Theodore Winthrop. She was an avid theater-goer and confided to her diary rapt accounts of such stars as Edward Davenport, James Murdoch, Edwin Forrest; the Sewards’ close personal friend, Charlotte Cushman; and John Wilkes Booth’s brother Edwin, who came to dine with the Sewards the evening he played Hamlet in Washington during March, 1864. She thought him a “sad, sensitive, dignified gentleman.”

Fanny formed very strong opinions and her descriptions of prominent people were not always flattering. Although she liked two of Lincoln’s private secretaries, John Nicolay and John Hay, she characterized the third, William Stoddard, “as excessively ill-looking, conceited and disagreeable; very flat & silly in conversation, and grins abominably.” Novelist Anthony Trollope was “a great homely, red, stupid faced Englishman, with a disgusting beard.” The wives of Senators John Crittenden and Ira Harris appear as “two very fat bundles of hair, feathers, lace &jewelry—who grew dreadfully uninteresting.”

For all her youth and occasional high spirits there was a certain melancholy about Fanny Seward. Perhaps she realized that she was gradually losing her patient struggle with ill health. Since a childhood bout with typhoid fever she had been subject to severe chills, fevers, and a nagging cough which she predicted would eventually “carry me off.”

When tragedy finally struck the Sewards it took a dreadful toll. Fanny’s account of what she witnessed on Assassination Night, 1865, is printed here just as she wrote it—with her punctuation and misspellings preserved—but she could not record the final results. Major Augustus Seward’s wounds proved superficial. The Secretary of State also recovered. But when he resumed his post, friends and foes alike were shocked by his aged, infirm appearance and the jagged marks that twisted the right side of his face. Frederick, suffering a fracture of the skull, lay unconscious for weeks and throughout his life wore a skull cap to hide his scars. Yet he was eighty-five when he died, in 1915.

Gradually the horror faded and a deeper sorrow took its place. Oppressed by anxiety and suffering from shock, Mrs. Seward’s frail health collapsed and she died two months after the assassination attempt. Grief over the loss of her mother, constant fear for her father and brother, combined with sleepless nights, hastily eaten meals, and overwork, undermined Fanny’s limited resources. She spent the next year patiently enduring the steadily worsening cough which indeed “carried her oft” on October 29, 1866.

—Patricia Carley Johnson

Wednsday April 5th I went in the afternoon to make a call, met Father in the Dcpt wagon. Anna was not well—had been ailing several days. She took a little drive with us. Alter that Mary Titus 1 and I went to Dept. for Father and Fred—stopped at our door for Father’s coat, drove out Vermotmt Avenue. The carriage door not being tightly closet! kept Hying open. The coachman was told to dismount & shut it. While he was doing so the horses started. The coachman, (Henry Key) had the reins in his hand, and was swung by them some distance. Fred immediately jumped out, thinking to head the horses. Although they were not going very fast he was thrown to the ground. The horses turned round with a rapid sweep & went on increasing their speed. Father had some idea of being able to stop them, & sprang from the carriage in spite of my entreaties that he would not jump. J was on the back seat & could not sec whether he reached the ground safely or not. Mary was opposite me. The horses tore along. J had a momentary thought of catching the reins, but they were swinging widely in the air far beyond my reach. We passed the Wilkes’ i saw the houses & the sidewalk lit with peaceful sunshine while we seemed to be whirling on to certain destruction. At the alley between Mr Tayloe’s house & ours the horses turned. We brushed against a tree. The brick corner of the house was in front—I was sure we were to be dashed against it and crushed to death. But just there the off horse fell, all crowded in between his mate and the carriage. Before we had time to get out of the carriage, the horse was up again, & we were dashing down the alley, when a soldier headed & stopped the horses, & saved us from being dragged into the stable. As soon as we could get out I hastened back to look for Father, 1 met a crowd of men carrying him, & i thought he was dead, but they told me no. Then Fred came up. He sent me to tell Anna to prepare a bed. While J stood in our hall the men carried Father in K: up stairs. A rough man told me Father was not hurt, only his nose was cut—(he was bleeding) Anna went up stairs. J rested in the library then went to my own room—Anna came in two or three times— Said Father was insensible 8: would not know me. The doctors were there. Hc came gradually to conciousness, was bewildered at first. One of the surgeons examined his arm—J could hear the cries which the pain of the examination caused him. The right arm was found broken between the shoulder and the elbow. About six o’c. Anna came and told me Father would know me now. I wcul. into the room—he was so disfigured by bruises, Iiis lace so swolcn, that he had scarcely a trace of resemblance to himself. His eyes were closed by immense swellings. Anna told him I was there, and he said. “And you were not. hurt?” “Xo.” “And Mary was not hurt?” “Xo.” M1 Gutman was there— Presently I was bidden to go down to dinner—(jus & I while the rest waited with Father. I found M StaiHon in the hall below. When J came up a lew minutes alter he was siting by Father’s bed-side. Anna told me to apply a wash once in 15 min. to Father’s face. The blood from his nose was almost suffocating him— Gus wiped it away. Mr Sianion wiped his lips—spoke gently to Iiim—and was like a woman in the sickroom—& much more efficient than I, who did not know what to do.

1 An intimate friend and contemporary of Fanny’s from Auburn.

2 Home of Admiral Charles Wilkcs on H Street.

3 Benjamin Ogle lax lor. one ol a group of distinguished old-time residents ol Washington.

4 A. Anthony Ciilmun, Scward’s secretary at the Stale Department.

Many kind friends called to oiler their services, or enquire. Fred told me that when he had got up lrom his own fall he ran & found Father lying on the ground, his great, heavy overcoat over his head, in a stilling way. Fosbtng5 found the heel off one of the shoes he wore, a new pair, which showed that he must have caught his heel in getting out. & that threw him on his face.

5 Probably Gustav Forsberg. a Swedish steward employed by the family for over eight years.

The Surgeon General, (Dr Harnes,) Dr Xorris medical officer attending officers of Keg. Army here) and Dr Verdi6 were here. The case was placed in the hands of the Surgeon General. Dr Xorris had special care.

6 Dr. T. S. Verdi, the Seward family physician.

Mother was telegraphed of the accident, K: I wrote a lew words home.

Thursday April 6th Alter breakfast f wrote a lew lines to Mother, since we do not hear of her having left Auburn—& that others might open them if she had left. M’ Gutman, going 10 I’ittsburg. to be married next Tuesday, came to take leave of us. Father’s lace is terribly swolcn, & he bears no likeness to himself. I sat tip till three o’clock in the morning— Father was restless, & talking constantly, in his sleep—holding my hand.

Friday April 7th Mother R; Will came in the evening —the late train. Father had been expecting them. 1 told Mother bel ore site saw lather, something of his appearance—still she was much shocked by it. I had thought there was no danger in his situation, but she explained to me that of congestion R: inflammation, which made me feel very badly. Retired late.

The diary from which I copy has this note “I have been so hurried that these pages are filled tip long after their date, & 1 cannot give many particulars.”

I remember meeting Mother at ihe loot ol the stairs —& later, when she took a cup ol tea in the dining room with Will, Fred was there, 8; when she asked about his broken arm, lilted a chair to show her thai he had regained his strength. She had been sick on the way, but was looking well then—S; was in the greatest anxiety about lather when she came.

Saturday April 8th Father seemed belter in the morning-. The swelling of his lace goes down, Dr Norris examined his jaw again today. (I think it was the day before that he first examined it—& discovered the fracture) It was in the morning. Fred, Anna & 1 were present—I never saw such agony — it was terrible to witness, & made me very sad. Fred sent Mr Patty to show Mary Titus some places ol interest. Mother had a head-ache which kepi her in her room most ol the time. Clarence 7 was here in ihc eveningtame in & saw lather. It being Mary Titus’ last night here I slept with her—retired at 12 o’c.

7 Clarence A. Seward, Fanny’s cousin. While Seward and Fred were incapacitated from the assassinalion attempt he served as acting Assistant Secretary of State (April to August, 1865).

Sunday April 9th The swelling ol lather’s lace has subsided rapidly, making him look much more like himsell. Secretary Stanton was here three times today. I shall never forget ihe scene this morning when M1 Stanton approached the bed, & lather took his hand and in a strong voice cried, “God bless you Stanton—I can never tell you hall———” “Don’t try to speak, said M1 Stanton, whose lace I could not see, but from his voice 1 judged him much allected— “You have made nie cry l’or lhe first lime in my IiIc I believe said Father. In the al’lcnioon—M1' Sianton brought him I’rtiit sent by Mrs Stanion. Clarence was here in the morning—& sat some time in Mother’s room—she not being well was lying down. Clarence slaved to dinnerMother’s neuralgia was better. Will IeIt lor Auburn at 6 P.M.—accompanied by Mary Titus, who is to stop at Yonkers. Early in the evening the President, who returned from City Point in the afternoon) was here. When I went into the room he was lying on the foot of Father’s bed, talking with him. I said good evening, & was passing around to my seat on the other side, when I saw a long arm extended back around the foot of the bed, to shake hands in his cordial way. He stayed some time—told us Mr Stanton had told him he gave father up at first. He told us much about his visit to Richmond, & that one of his last acts was going through a hospital of seven thousand men, & shaking hands with each one. He spoke of having worked as hard at it as sawing wood—Sc seemed, in his goodness of heart, much satisfied at the labor. He spoke of the escort that met him & took him into Richmond—Sc his son Robert with them. (It was the last time I ever saw our beloved President—kind, genial & unaffected—he lay talking to Father on his sick bed, Sc after perhaps an hour—rose, 8c went from our sight forever.) Later in the evening Mr Stanton came & told Father that at 4 o’c today Gen Lee surrendered himself and his army to General Grant. “God be praised!” said Father. Mr Stanton then related the particulars of the event. Such news is unspeakbly thrilling & momentous.

Monday April 10th Father felt better—had his arm & jaw bandaged early—sat up twice during the day. The doctors were all here at once this morning—besides coming separately during the day. Clarence was here in the morning, & left town during the day. Mother was better. The streets were in jubilee over the glorious news from Grant. All department employees had a holiday. The streets were filled with happy people, marching about with flags and bands of music. Mother & I watched them from the windows of Father’s room. Besides the salutes fired by order of Mr Stanton, some people from the Navy Yard carried about two howitzers—firing them.

Reed letters from Mrs Perry 8 & Crissie K. Seward.9

8 Mother of two of Fanny’s closest friends in Auburn.

9 Christiana Frederika Kimbier, who married Fanny’s cousin Samuel Swayze Seward.

Tuesday April 11th Though I believe there were no unfavorable symptoms, Father did not seem so well today. Once while I was with Father I began to read to him “Enoch Arden”—but the papers came soon after, & Fred read them to him.

The public buildings were illuminated in the evening, in honor of the news of Sunday. We could see the State Department, looking very finely, from our windows—also—less distinctly, the President’s house. There were three bands in the neighbor-hood—one at the State Dept. A transparency was used at the State Department, which father had prepared for an illumination in 1861, which did not take place (on account of Willie Lincoln’s death) The words were “The Union saved by fidelity to the Constitution, Faith in the People, & Trust in God.”

Wednsday April 12th Father had a bad night, but seemed better during the day— The physicians think favorably of his condition. They were each here three times today. In the morning, in place of bandaging, Dr Norris secured the fractured jaw by a wire from one tooth to the other. The operation was less painful than we apprehended, & the arrangement much more comfortable than the bandaging. His suffering today was augmented by gout in the right foot—but it is considered a good thing to divert a tendency to inflammation. Before 10 o’c—(when I retired) Dr Norris gave him a médecine (valerian & something else) to produce calm sleep, which he much needed. We thought he would have a very quiet night.

Thursday April 13th The medecine did not have the anticipated effect. Father had a very uncomfortable night—the medecine & the inflammation of the foot together made him delerious. He was still confused when morning came. He wanted to see Mr Harrington 10—who was sent for very early, & coming, soothed him by passing his hand over his brow. During the morning Anna and I were with him—alternately or together. Mother had been up with him, also Fred. He sat up a long time. Anna read him the papers. Dr Barnes was here twice, Dr Norris morning, afternoon, and evening, Dr Verdi 3 or 4 times. Evening, Mr Stanton was here. Lynchburg is ours. There was a grand illumination of the city—public buildings & private residences, this evening. Owing to Father’s illness we did not illuminate. There were superb fire works in La Fayette square. Mother & I watched them from the window of Father’s room. Some of them were like bursting shells—and a new hospital nurse who comes to assist in taking care of Father at night, George Robinson,11 told us the fireworks were quite a good representation of a skirmish fire such as he was used to. The signal lights, red, yellow & green were very beautiful. Mother & I enjoyed the sight very much. I remember how bright & cheerful she was. Dr Norris came— He told me a little about the illumination of the city. Father seemed better in the afternoon. Dr Norris came in the night to see him.

10 George Harrington, the Assistant Secretary of the Treasury and 1865-1869 minister to Switzerland.

11 Sergeant George F. Robinson, a convalescent soldier assigned to the Sewards as a nurse. He and Augustus Seward were the prosecution’s key witnesses in the trial and conviction of Lewis Payne.

Good Friday. April 14th 1865. Father had a better night than any of late, and seemed the better after his refreshing sleep— He took solid food for the first time since his accident—breakfasted on soft egg, milk-toast, shad and coffee. Today a distinguished party perform the ceremony of raising the flag on Fort Sumter, taken from us 4 years ago.

So far I had written in pencil, in my pocket diary on the day of the date— I think I remember beginning the page, & wondering if I should have anything unsual to enter there later in the day. The rest of the page is filled with out-lines of what occurred later— from which, & from a longer account written three weeks later at my earliest leisure—(to relieve my mind of its weight of recollection) I write the following account. I can only give my remembrances, which are very vivid in my own mind—but I cannot describe all that took place, because in many instances I cannot remember to have seen some who were in the roomAnna, for instance—8c Robinson part of the time.

First we had a quiet afternoon. Father so much better that he told Donaldson 12 he need not stay— I sat alone with him some time and read “Enoch Arden” to him. He spoke very highly of it. In the evening a torch-light procession of employees from the Navy Yard or Arsenal, visited the White House. I think it was earlier than that, that I was some time with Mother, in our room—part of the time she was lying down. I was telling her how any recital of suffering affected 8c haunted me—and she told me it had always been so with her. I think we talked much together Anna 8c I watched the procession, & listened to the music—they played “Rally Round the Flag,” & were singing too I believe, as they approached the White House. I came to my room to show Anna a book of soldier’s songs, in which was the “Year of Jubilee,” of which I had been telling her. Mother & she Sc I talked a little there— Then came the quiet arrangements for the night, in father’s room— Fred & Anna 8c Mother had been up a great deal— That evening it was arranged that Gus should rest till 11—then sit up till in the night when Donaldson would come— Meantime I was to have the watch while Gus rested, & Robinson was to be there till George, the german nurse, relieved him. I sat by the side of the bed nearest the door, reading “Legends of Charlemagne,” Robinson was near. I saw that Father seemed inclined to sleep—so turned down the gas, laid my book on a stand at the foot of the bed, & took a seat on the other side. About 10 o’c—Dr Norris paid his visit—8c left us all quiet. Father fell into a light sleep. Fred came in at the door, & glancing at the bed, saw his father slept, and said he would come in again. After he had gone, Father opened his eyes with a little smile of recognition as he saw me at the foot of the bed. He was lying close on the edge, farthest from the door— I do not remember hearing voices outside, but something led me to think that Fred was there with someone else. It occurred to me that he might have some important reason for wishing to see Father awake. Perhaps the President was there, or had sent over. I did not stop to see if father wakened thoroughly, but hastened to the door, opened it a very little, and found Fred standing close by it, facing me. On his right hand, also close by the door, stood a very tall young man, in a light hat & long overcoat. I said “Fred, Father is awake now.” Something in Fred’s manner led me at once to think that he did not wish me to say so, and that I had better not have opened the door. This confused me, & looking around I was glad to see Father going to sleep again. Holding the door as I did, I know the man could not see my father at all, nor could Fred, I think. I do not remember what Fred said to me. The man seemed impatient, Sc addressing me in a tone that struck me at once as much more harsh & full of determination than such a simple question justified, asked “Is the Secretary asleep.” I paused to look at my father, Sc replied “Almost.” Then Fred drew the door shut very quickly. I sat down again. I had no means of telling the errand of the man. I fancied some one had sent him—that he was, perhaps, a messenger from the telegraph office. Very soon I heard the sound of blows —it seemed to me as many as half a dozen—sharp and heavy, with lighter one’s between. There had been an interval of quiet. I did not fully connect this with the person I had seen. I thought they were chasing a rat in the hall, remembering such a chase once. But when the blows continued, I could not tell what it meant, & said to Robinson, who was sitting at the head of the bed, on the side nearest the door, “What can be the matter? Do go and see.” Then I was afraid something was wrong, and, being impatient to find out, started, myself. I thought Robinson & I reached the door at the same time. I did not see who opened it— It was he. I saw that two men came in, side by side. I was close by the door, Se the one nearest me, was Fred. The side of his face was covered with blood, the rest very pale, his eyes full of intense expression. I spoke to ask him what was the matter,—he could not answer me. On his right hand was the assassin. I do not remember how his face looked, his arms were both stretched out, he seemed rushing toward the bed. In the hand nearest me was a pistol, in the right hand a knife. I ran beside him to the bed imploring him to stop. I must have said “Don’t kill him,” for father wakened, he says, hearing me speak the word kill, Sc seeing first me, speaking to some one whom he did not see—then raised himself & had one glimpse of the assassin’s face bending over, next felt the blows—and by their force (he being on the edge of the bed, where fear of hurting his broken arm, had caused him to lie for some time) was thrown to the floor. I cannot remember seeing him—nor seeing Payne—go around the bed—but Anna was in the room and saw it. I have no remembrance of going around the foot of the bed, to the other side, but I remember standing there, by the corner at the foot, Sc thinking “This must be a fearful dream!” Then I looked about and saw, first, what I had seen before I think, but more fully now—three men struggling beside the bed. I knew who they all were then. I could not tell the next day. But they were Fred & Robinson Se the assassin—next I saw all the familiar objects in the room, the bureau, the little stand, the book I had been reading, all looked natural. Then I knew it was not a dream. I remember pacing the room back 8c forth from end to end—screaming. My screams wakened Gus. but I do not remember seeing him when he came inthen Payne & the others were [blank in Ms.] After a little time, it seemed to me—though all that had taken place must have been almost in an instant, some vague idea of calling for assistance carried me into the hall. I think that at that time the assassin & those struggling with him were by the door in Father’s room, 8c that I passed them as I went out. I have a very indistinct recollection of the next moment, when I seemed to meet Mother on one side, and Anna on the other, both saying “What is the matter,” and I said something about the man, (Payne) who came out struggling with some one, I afterwards learned it was Augustus. I think I saw the assassin stab Hansell,13 as he, the assassin rushed headlong down the stairs. I do not know just when—but I remember in the hall with Mother and Anna asking me what happended, my saying “Is that man gone,” and they said “what man.” The first recollection I have of seeing Augustus—except when the assassin broke away from him, was with his forehead covered with blood. It seemed to me that every man I met had blood on his face. It seems to me that I saw Fred then. I did not open any window and cry “murder” as the report of Robinson’s statement said, neither did I leave the room as then mentioned, but at the time I have stated.

12 James Donaldson, State Department clerk and messenger.

13 Emerick Hansell, messenger for the State Department.

I remember running back, crying out “Where’s Father?,” seeing the empty bed. At the side I found what I thought was a pile of bed clothes—then I knew that it was Father. As I stood my feet slipped in a great pool of blood. Father looked so gastly I was sure he was dead, he was white & very thin with the blood that had drained from the gashes about his face & throat. Fred was in the room till after Father was placed on the bed. Margaret14 says she heard me scream “O my God! Father’s dead.” I remember that Robinson came instantly, &: lifting him, said his heart still beat—Sc he, with or without aid, laid him on the bed. Notwithstanding his own injuries Robinson stood faithfully at Father’s side, on the right hand— I did not know what should be done. Robinson told me everything—about staunching the blood with cloths & water. He applied them on the right side, & I, kneeling on the bed, on the left, put them on a wound on that side of the neck. Father seemed to me almost dead, but he spoke to me, telling me to have the doors closed, & send for surgeons, 38;: to ask to have a guard placed around the house. William had gone for Dr Verdi, & he came & had ice applied to the wounds. I ran down to the butlers pantry for ice. & saw a great many persons gathered about the door. While Dr V. was on Father’s right side, & I engaged as before, the doctor who was himself greatly excited kept saying to me—(I was talking & making some exclaimations I believe) “Don’t get excited, don’t get excited— Then Father showed his conciousness by putting out his hand towards me in a soothing way, as if to bid me be calm, & reassure me. It seemed a great while to us before the doctors came, though they probably hastened on the earliest information of what had occured. William, the colored boy, having been accustomed to go for Dr Verdi on former occasions, went for him the first thing, so he was here sooner. The Tayloes were passing—Mr Sc Mrs T. & came in—& stayed I think all night— Mrs Tayloe was in the hall or some other room, & Mr T. in Father’s room. The Surgeon General came, &: stood by Father on the right, & Dr Norris came next & kneeling down to examinine the wounds said something like “Assassination in the vilest form—” A clot of blood upon father’s chest, which I had taken for a stab, was found to be only blood that had collected there outside. We were assured that no artery was severed, & the wounds were not fatal. The little entry outside fathers door, Uc the stairway beyond, were thronged with inquiring men of every description M. C.s—policemen, members of the press—etc— Everyone was asking us to tell more than we knew ourselves. Anna, at Fred’s door resisted their entrance with great firmness, & I was unwilling to have any one come into father’s room—for I could not reason calmly, & suspected everyone. At first Mother had supposed that the whole occurrence consisted in Father’s being more than usually delerious, & that in that condition he had injured Fred. She had an indistinct view of Gus and Payne struggling at the door, & supposed it to be father with a knife. She saw Fred’s condition 8c went into his room, Se was engaged with him. He was then unable to speak. So she was not in father’s room at first. I cannot remember when she came in—but I remember her being there, ministering to him. She & Anna went to the attic to see if any one was concealed there. Mother forbade me to go then— At one time I went, Sc searched in some of the rooms there, then went down to the parlor floor, & looked through three rooms & was going further when Fosburg told me he had searched. (Fosburg waited up stairs till Payne was out of the house—then appeared Sc stood at the foot of father’s bed.) I remember going to the attic 8c tearing the clothing from the beds & bringing it down for father’s bed when he had a severe chill. While the Surgeon General was here, I found between the door Se the bed, just in front of the wash-stand, a hat which I supposed to be Payne’s—as it afterwards proved to be— I showed it to Anna, &: by her advice put it in the bureau drawer. The washbowl on the stand had the bottom broken out when I first looked at it. Near where I found the hat, the pistol was picked up— I found Robinson looking for the priming on the floor —he said it was missing, and if stepped on might do mischief—he soon found it. Dr Norris sewed up the great gash in father’s cheek—which had laid open— I was standing by the door, against the wall while he did it. I imagined all the time that father suffered dreadfully. I thought I heard him moan. But Father has since told us that he remembers no feeling of pain, Sc that he thinks he both fell asleep & woke during the operation—he remembered “being sewed up.” The Surgeon General was sent for with the news of the assassination of the President. Mother saw the person who came for him, who told her of the fact. I remember hearing some one else tell her the President had been shot. The Surgeon General sent me out of the room part of the time while they were attending to Father, Sc told me he would send for me if I was wanted. Perhaps it was at this time, I went into Fred’s room Se saw him lying bloody & unconcious, on a lounge, where he was being attended to. … I went across the hall into my own room. I was there twice. The first time they were dressing poor Hansell’s back—(he was stabbed in the back) the second time he lay on the bed. Eliza the seamstress was there to attend to him. In the middle of the room sat Donaldson, his face buried in his hands—crying aloud, like a child. I touched his shoulder Se said—“Donaldson, you were not hurt?” “No Miss Fanny” he said—“I wasn’t here. If I had been here this wouldn’t have happened. If I had been here I’d have been a dead man. OhI why wasn’t I here?”

14 One of the Sewards’ maids.

All the white wood work of the entry was covered with great dashes of blood. I did not want it washed off—but Margaret & Eliza told me some person had directed that it should be—so I did not interfere. It was a terrible sight—there was so much blood everywhere. The drugget on the stairs was sprinkled with it, all the way down to the floor below. On the inner side of the door of Father’s room there was, in blood, the distinct impression of a hand, which seemed to have clenched it from without. While this was being wiped off I marked the door, to show where the place had been. When we found father there was such a pool of blood that our dresses were drabbled in it. Dr Norris’s assistant, Dr Nottson15 came. Dr Norris bandaged Fred’s wounds—which he supposed much less dangerous than they proved to be. The Surgeon General, having been summoned, went away. Father had been attended to & moved to the left side of the bed. As the Surgeon General left the room he shook hands with me telling me Father was safe. Dr Verdi at first for some time kept rushing around saying “Children, children, don’t get excited—” While Father was being attended to, some of the time I stood over by the door, leaning against the wall. I think he came & said something of that sort once then. While I stood there Dr Norris came to me & said “You have been a pretty brave little girl tonight, can’t you get me a shirt for your father?” & I went to get one of Augustus’ who left his bed, 8c gave me two shirts. …

15 Brevet Major William Monroe Notson, Assistant Surgeon, U.S. Medical Corps.

At one time all the doctors were in Fred’s room, 8c Mother & I were with Father. Once I thought his wounds were bleeding afresh—but it proved to be only a clot of blood. At another time when the doctors were in the room, mother was sitting down—& I went to her. She was ill in some way I think—perhaps with palpitation. She showed feeling & anxiety that must have been anguish, but she bore up with the greatest fortitude— as we spoke together she told me she was afraid Fred could not live. By that time it had been ascertained that his injuries were very serious. I do not know whether it was before or after the Surgeon General left that Dr Wilson went to see Fred— He declined, on medical etiquette to examine the wounds till Dr Norris had removed the bandages put on by himself. It was found that Fred’s injuries were of the most dangerous nature—the skull fractured. I met Mr Harrington in the entry—Sc he told me not to give up about Fred, described very serious injuries he had once sustained—had been trepanned. Fred was insensible. Father was conscious. Not very long after the attack, when Father’s wounds had been dressed & himself moved to the right side of the bed, a number of distinguished gentlemen came in 8c stood about the bed. Mr Stanton, Gen. Halleck,16 8c Mr Welles 17 are all I remember. It was then that I first heard about the President, one of the gentlemen telling Mother that he was shot. As this group stood there Father related in a clear, distinct manner, his recollections of the whole scene—between each and he drew breath, as one dying might speak, & I feared the effort might cost his remaining strength. I think we gave him tea in the night —at his own request. I was in constant apprehension of some fatal turn in his symptoms— At length all was still in the room— We took our seats to watch through the night. Dr Norris remained much of the night—&: when he went away left his assistant, Dr Nottson, saying that he was an accomplished physician. As we sat through those long dark hours the thoughts they brought were almost overwhelming. The thought that such cruel & inhuman beings, as the man who had attacked my father & brothers, existed, made me wish myself dead, & out of such a world anywhere seemed better. The anxiety of the condition of father Bc Fred was fearful. Although a guard sat in the entry, I could not reason away a feeling that the assassin who had wounded so many might return & finish his attempt. I had felt suspicious of every unknown face however friendly— I was too shocked to reason. “I have supped full on horrors,” rang over & over in my mind—and I retraced the dreadful scene—Sc remembered the moment when I felt almost beside myself, and Anna’s hand laid on my arm, & her voice “Fanny! Fannyl” recalled me, & I stopped screaming to answer her inquiries 8c to remember that I must be quiet Sc calm. Blood, blood, my thoughts seemed drenched in it—I seemed to breathe its sickening odor. My dress was stained with it—Mother’s was drabbled with it—it was on everything. The bed had been covered with bloodthe blankets &: sheet chopped with several blows of the knife. Night wore away while we sat there—the gray light of morning came— “Risest thou then gray dawn again” repeated itself over 8c over in my mind—& that light should come, 8c the sun rise, & the birds sing & the green leaves rustle in the trees, seemed strange in such a world. Early in the morning, by Father’s side, Dr Nottson showed me a card on which some one told one of the surgeons that the president was growing worse. Father asked about it. In the morning came a note from Miss Dix18 to Mother, which I answered, offering to be of assistance, & to send one or more women nurses. Mr Stanton came. I think it must have been he—but perhaps it was some one earlier, that answered Mother’s inquiry as to whether any thing later had been heard from the President— “Yes— He is dead.” He died at 7—8c we heard of it within two hours. While Mr Stanton was there by the bed Mother said very gently to Father— “Henry—the President is gone.” He received the news calmly, but seemed to know the meaning of the words. He was not able to talk much of the time—and communicated, as he had done before the last injury—by means of a white slate & pencil—but—owing to his exhausted state, & to his broken arm, it was almost impossible for him to write so that it could be read. I remember that Mother said —in talking with the Secretary of War, “Are you safe Mr Stanton,” as if apprehensive of danger to him— “Not any more than any one else” (or, the others,) he replied. He said Mrs Stanton was down stairs— I went down and saw her in the library— Mr Stanton came down, and I told him about the pistol—which was brought— I also told him of the hat & showed it to him—he took charge of both. I told him my fear about the guard, there not being any at the back door. He was very kind—& relieved my solicitude at once, a little Later in the morning I was called down to see Col. Pelouze, who said he had Mr Stanton’s instructions to come to me, & to place the guard where I said. The guard was doubled—by Mr S.’s order, after my speak ing to him. Many friends came to inquire— I saw none of them but Dept. people. The President died about half past seven in the morning. Miss Dix sent a note which I answered—(she offered assistance) quite early she came over—& saw Mother & Father. Father conversed with her by using his slate. It was very difficult to read the writing—he was so weak. The following sentence, addressed to Miss Dix—I copied from the slate for her. “Neither the friends nor the enemies of our America have left me anything to complain of. The friends of America ought to have watched Mr Lincoln better. His life however is the forfeit. The Nation will do him Justice.”

16 Major General Henry Wager Halleck, military advisor to the President and Chief of Staff of the Army.

17 Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles.

18 Dorothea Lynde Dix, pioneer in the field of woman’s nursing.

I copied three other sentences which he wrote on the slate that day—these: “__ the blows inflicted before or after the assault on you, Augustus, & Frederick,” “I was fast asleep and only saw Fanny __ up, and the assasin. I next ___ ___ and would kill me. Then the blow, dashing blood in floods.” (I have to leave blanks where the words were illegible.) “I saw all my strength was weakness last night. I thought that if I had still reserved forces I should make them take me safely through in two or three days.

I am very moderate.

I have drunk tea all day—making no point of it.”

(Here this section of the diary ends.)