I saw him in Broadway, near the site of the present
Post-office. He came down, I think from Canal street, to stop at
the Astor House. The broad spaces, sidewalks, and street in the
neighborhood, and for some distance, were crowded with solid masses of
people, many thousands. The omnibuses and other vehicles had all been
turn'd off, leaving an unusual hush in that busy part of the city.
Presently two or three shabby hack barouches made their way with some
difficulty through the crowd, and drew up at the Astor House entrance.
A tall figure stepp'd out of the centre of these barouches, paus'd
leisurely on the sidewalk, look'd up at the granite walls and looming
architecture of the grand old hotel--then, after a relieving stretch
of arms and legs, turn'd round for over a minute to slowly and
good-humoredly scan the appearance of the vast and silent crowds.
There were no speeches--no compliments--no welcome--as far as I could
hear, not a word said. Still much anxiety was conceal'd in that quiet.
Cautious persons had fear'd some mark'd insult or indignity to the
President-elect--for he possess'd no personal popularity at all in New
York city, and very little political. But it was evidently tacitly
agreed that if the few political supporters of Mr. Lincoln present
would entirely abstain from any demonstration on their side, the
immense majority, who were anything but supporters, would abstain on
their side also. The result was a sulky, unbroken silence, such as
certainly never before characterized so great a New York crowd.
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