A scene which transpired in Philadelphia, the morning after the murder, reflects the picture presented in every city and town in the United States.  “We had taken our seats,” says the delineator, “in the early car to ride down town, men and boys going to work.  The morning papers had come up from town as usual, and the men unrolled them to read as the car started.  The eye fell on the black border and ominous column-lines.  Before we could speak, a good Quaker at the head of the car broke out in horror:  ‘My God!  What’s this? Lincoln is assassinated.’ The driver stopped the car, and came in to hear the awful tidings.  There stood the car, mid-street, as the heavy news was read in the gray dawn of that ill-fated day.  Men bowed their faces in their hands, and on the straw-covered floor hot tears fell fast.  Silently the driver took the bells from his horses, and we started like a hearse cityward.  What a changed city since the day before!  Then all was joy over the end of the war; now we were plunged in a deeper gulf of woe.  The sun rose on a city smitten and weeping.  All traffic stood still; the icy hand of death lay flat on the heart of commerce, and it gave not a throb.  Men stood by their open stores saying, with hands on each other’s shoulders, ’Our President is dead.’  Over and over, in a dazed way, they said the fateful syllables, as if the bullet that tore through the weary brain at Washington had palsied the nation.  The mute news-boy on the corner said never a word as he handed to the speechless buyers the damp sheets from the press; only he brushed, with unwashed hand, the tears from his dirty cheeks.  Groups stood listening on the pavement with faces to the earth, while one, in choking voice, read the telegrams; then with a look they departed in unworded woe, each cursing bitterly in his breast the ’deep damnation of his taking off.’  Mill operatives, clerks, workers, school children, all came home, the faltering voice of the teacher telling the wondering children to ‘go home, there will be no school to-day.’  The housewife looked up amazed to see husband and children coming home so soon.  The father’s face frightened her and she cried, ’What is wrong, husband?’ He could not speak the news, but the wee girl with the school-books said, ‘Mamma, they’ve killed the President.’  Ere noon every house wore crape; it was as if there lay a dead son in every home.  For hours a sad group hung around the bulletins, hoping against hope; then, when the last hope died, turned sullenly homeward, saying, ’When all was won, and all was done, then to strike him down!’ The flags in the harbor fell to half-mast; the streets were rivers of inky streamers; from door-knobs floated crape; and even the unbelled car-horses seemed to draw the black-robed cars more quietly than before.”