The hot passions of the South--the strange
mixture at the North of inertia, incredulity, and conscious power--the
incendiarism of the abolitionists--the rascality and grip of the
politicians, unparallel'd in any land, any age. To these I must
not omit adding the honesty of the essential bulk of the people
everywhere--yet with all the seething fury and contradiction of their
natures more arous'd than the Atlantic's waves in wildest equinox. In
politics, what can be more ominous, (though generally unappreciated
then)--what more significant than the Presidentiads of Fillmore and
Buchanan? proving conclusively that the weakness and wickedness of
elected rulers are just as likely to afflict us here, as in the
countries of the Old World, under their monarchies, emperors, and
aristocracies. In that Old World were everywhere heard underground
rumblings, that died out, only to again surely return. While in
America the volcano, though civic yet, continued to grow more and more
convulsive--more and more stormy and threatening.
In the height of all this excitement and chaos, hovering on the edge
at first, and then merged in its very midst, and destined to play a
leading part, appears a strange and awkward figure. I shall not easily
forget the first time I ever saw Abraham Lincoln. It must have been
about the 18th or 19th of February, 1861. It was rather a pleasant
afternoon, in New York city, as he arrived there from the West, to
remain a few hours, and then pass on to Washington, to prepare for
his inauguration.
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