(by the ghost of John Beauchamp Jones)
The Sabbath draws near, yet no peace settles upon the capital. Troops continue 
to pour into the city, their bivouacs scattered about the Mall and their sentries posted on every thoroughfare. The fences climb higher, black mesh stretched along the avenues where citizens once walked freely. The Capitol, that temple of deliberation, now wears the aspect of a fortress besieged, its steps deserted save for armed watchmen.
Within the Congress, debate grows ever more severe. Articles of impeachment are already drafted, to be introduced in the coming days, charging the President with inciting insurrection. It is a measure without precedent so near the close of a term, yet the temper of the chamber brooks no delay. Some whisper of resignation as a course of mercy, yet the man at the center gives no sign of yielding.
The city murmurs with rumor. Lists of conspirators circulate, talk of plots still afoot, and fears of new violence at the inauguration swell by the hour. Merchants keep their shutters drawn, and ordinary folk hasten their business, avoiding the clustered soldiers and barricades. A sense of unreality clings to all — that America, so proud of her continuity, should be found stumbling into such peril at the very seat of her authority.
Foreign observers look on with incredulity. Dispatches report governments abroad condemning the outrage, even as they reckon the United States diminished by the spectacle. To see the citadel of liberty defiled by its own sons has given comfort to rivals and sorrow to allies.
Thus passes the day: the Capitol encircled, the President embattled, and the people unsettled. What should have been the tranquil waning of an administration has instead become a contest for the nation’s very soul. I record with heavy pen that the danger is not yet spent, and that the coming days will test whether this republic can endure its own tempest.