It was half-past ten o’clock, and the audience was absorbed in the progress of the play, when suddenly a pistol shot, loud and sharp, rang through the theatre.  All eyes were instantly directed toward the President’s box, whence the report proceeded.  A moment later, the figure of a man, holding a smoking pistol in one hand and a dagger in the other, appeared at the front of the President’s box, and sprang to the stage, some eight or ten feet below, shouting as he did so, “Sic semper tyrannis!” He fell as he struck the stage; but quickly recovering himself, sprang through the side-wings and escaped from the theatre by a rear door.

At the moment of the assassination a single actor, Mr. Hawk, was on the stage.  In his account of the tragical event he says:  “When I heard the shot fired, I turned, looked up at the President’s box, heard the man exclaim, ‘Sic semper tyrannis!’ saw him jump from the box, seize the flag on the staff, and drop to the stage.  He slipped when he struck the stage, but got upon his feet in a moment, brandished a large knife, crying, ‘The South shall be free,’ turned his face in the direction where I stood, and I recognized him as John Wilkes Booth.  He ran towards me, and I, seeing the knife, thought I was the one he was after, and ran off the stage and up a flight of stairs.  He made his escape out of a door directly in the rear of the theatre, mounted a horse, and rode off.  The above all occurred in the space of a quarter of a minute, and at the time I did not know the President was shot.”

Scarcely had the horror-stricken audience witnessed the leap and flight of the asassin when a woman’s shriek pierced through the theatre, recalling all eyes to the President’s box.  The scene that ensued is described with singular vividness by the poet Walt Whitman, who was present:  “A moment’s hush—­a scream—­the cry of murder—­Mrs. Lincoln leaning out of the box, with ashy cheeks and lips, with involuntary cry, pointing to the retreating figure, ‘He has killed the President!’ And still a moment’s strange, incredulous suspense—­and then the deluge!—­then that mixture of horror, noises, uncertainty—­(the sound, somewhere back, of a horse’s hoofs clattering with speed)—­the people burst through chairs and railing, and break them up—­that noise adds to the queerness of the scene—­there is inextricable confusion and terror—­women faint—­feeble persons fall and are trampled on—­many cries of agony are heard—­the broad stage suddenly fills to suffocation with a dense and motley crowd, like some horrible carnival—­the audience rush generally upon it—­at least the strong men do—­the actors and actresses are there in their play costumes and painted faces, with mortal fright showing through the rouge—­some trembling, some in tears—­the screams and calls, confused talk—­redoubled, trebled—­two or three manage to pass up water from the stage to the President’s box—­others try to clamber up.  Amidst all this, a party of soldiers, two