The life, crime, and capture of John Wilkes Booth,: with a full sketch of the conspiracy of which he was the leader, and the pursuit, trial and execution of his accomplices./ By George Alfred Townsend.

lo Life, Crine, ani Claptw ofMn Wsl Ts ooth.
Mrs. Surratt is a graduate of that seminary which spits in soldiers' faox,
denounces brave generals upon the rostrum, and cries out for an intermi.
nable scaflold when all the bells are ringing peace.
How far her wicked love influenced her to participation in the murder
rests in her own breast, and up to this time she has not differed fr.om mothers at large-to twist her own bow-string rather than build his gibbet.
Beneath her shadowy bonnet, over her fan-tip, we see two large, sad
eyes, rising and falling, and now and then when the fan sways to and fro,
the hair just turning gray with trouble, and the round face growing wan
and seamed with terrible reflection, are seen a moment crouching low, as if
she would wish to grovel upon the floor and bury her forehead in her
hands.
Yet, sometimes, across Mrs. Surratt's face a stealthiness creeps-a sort
of furtive, feline flashing of the eye, like that of one which means to leap
sideways. At these times tier face seems to grow hard and colorless, as if
that tiger expression which Pradier caught upon the face of Brinvilliers and
fastened into a masque, had been repeated here. Not to grow mawkish
while we must be kind, let us not forget that'this woman is an old plotter.
If she did not devise the assassination, she was privy to it long. She was
an agent of contraband mails-a bold, crafty, assured rebel-perhaps a spy
-and in the event of her condemnation, let those who would plead for her
spend half their pity upon that victim whose heart was like a woman's,
and whose hand.v was mercifill as a mrother's.
Before the door sits an officer, uncovered, who does not seem to labor
under any particular fear, chiefly because the captives are ironed to immova
Dility,'and he stares and smiles alternately, as if he were somewhat amiable
.nd extremely bored.
Next'to the officer is a shabby-looking boy, whose seat is by the right
jamb of the jail door. Of all boys just old enough to feel their Oats, this
boy is the most commonplace. His parents would be likely to have no
sanguine hopes of his reaching the presidency; for his head indicates latent
dementia, and a slice or two from it would recommend him, without ex
amination, to the school for the feeble-minded.' Betterdressed, and washed,
%nd shaved, he might make a tolerable adornment to a hotel door, or even
reach the dignity of a bar-keeper or an usher at a theatre. But that this
fellow should occupy a leaf in history arid be confounded with a tragedy
entering into the literature of the world, reverses manifest destiny, and
leaves neither phrenology nor physiognomy a place to stand upon.
Come up! Gall, Spurzheim, and LIavater, and remark his sallow face,
attenuated by base excesses! Do you know any forehead so broad whith
means so little? the oyster could teach this man philosophy! IHis chin is
sharp, his eyes are blank blue,' his short black hair curls over his ears, and
his beard is of a prickly black, with a moustache which.does not help his
general contemptibleness. A dirty grayish shirt without a linen collar, is
seen between the lapels of the greasy and dusty cloth coat, sloping at the
Rhoulders; and under his worn brown trowsers, the manacle of iron makes
an ugly garter to his carpet clipper.
This is David Harold, who shared the wild night-ride of Booth, and
barely escaped that outlaw's death, in the burning barn.
Ie stoops to the rail'of the dock, now and then, to chat with his attorney,
an! a sort of blank anxiety, which he wears, as -his head turns here and
there, shifts to a frolicking smiile. But a woman of unusual attractions
enters the court, and' Harold is much more interested in' her than in his
u ittal.
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