Almost in the same neighborhood I distinctly remember'd seeing
Lafayette on his visit to America in 1825. I had also personally seen
and heard, various years afterward, how Andrew Jackson, Clay, Webster,
Hungarian Kossuth, Filibuster Walker, the Prince of Wales on his
visit, and other celebres, native and foreign, had been welcom'd
there--all that indescribable human roar and magnetism, unlike any
other sound in the universe--the glad exulting thunder-shouts of
countless unloos'd throats of men! But on this occasion, not a
voice--not a sound. From the top of an omnibus, (driven up one side,
close by, and block'd by the curbstone and the crowds,) I had, I say,
a capital view of it all, and especially of Mr. Lincoln, his look and
gait--his perfect composure and coolness--his unusual and uncouth
height, his dress of complete black, stovepipe hat push'd back on the
head, dark-brown complexion, seam'd and wrinkled yet canny-looking
face, black, bushy head of hair, disproportionately long neck, and his
hands held behind as he stood observing the people. He look'd with
curiosity upon that immense sea of faces, and the sea of faces
return'd the look with similar curiosity. In both there was a dash
of comedy, almost farce, such as Shakspere puts in his blackest
tragedies. The crowd that hemm'd around consisted I should think
of thirty to forty thousand men, not a single one his personal
friend--while I have no doubt, (so frenzied were the ferments of
the time,) many an assassin's knife and pistol lurk'd in hip or
breast-pocket there, ready, soon as break and riot came.
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