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Updated: May 23, 2025
And this is why I write the present article, to relieve myself from the pertinacious inquiries with which I have been assailed since my return from the melancholy episodes of the executions at Washington. I am button-holed at every corner, and put through a cross-examination, to which Holt's or Bingham's had no searchingness: "How did Mrs. Suratt die?" "Was the rope attached to her left ear?"
Certain it is that Johnstone did not surrender that day, but before midnight an event of far graver and more fatal purport had changed the destiny of the nation. Abraham Lincoln was dead. A conspiracy against his life and that of the Northern leaders had been formed by a group of exasperated and fanatical Southerners who met at the house of a Mrs. Suratt in the neighbourhood of Washington.
It is to be hoped that a Beardsley of the stage will one day appear and really do something for the dainty type of person or the superbly theatric artist such as Miss Gordon, Valeska Suratt, and the few other remarkable women of the vaudeville stage. I am more concerned with the less appreciated artists. I would see that they glitter by their own brilliance.
They have previously received the notices with expressions of wonderment. Now all realize that the Nation itself is imperilled. "This is another Suratt conspiracy," says one man to another. "Will it reach the President?" is the question that men do not dare ask, though they think it.
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