In the special car were Mr. And Mrs. Lincoln and their suite....Martin J. Townsend, Esq., a Chicago delegate, and a great friend of Thurlow Weed, was also on board; but Mr. Lincoln was so unwell and fatigued that he seemed to take very little interest in the political conversation. Mrs. Lincoln chit-chatted with her friends, and seemed all life and enjoyment....It was plain to see that the Lincolns are common sense, homelike folks unused to the glitter and flutter of society. Towering above all, with his face and forehead furrowed by a thousand wrinkles, his hair unkempt, his new whiskers looking as if not yet naturalized, his clothes illy arranged, Mr. Lincoln sat toward the rear of the saloon car.

Putting prejudices a-one-side, no one can see Mr. Lincoln without recognizing in him a man of immense power and force of character and natural talent. He seems so sincere, so conscientious, so earnest, so simple-hearted, that one cannot help liking him and esteeming any disparagement of his abilities or desire to do right as a personal insult. What will he do? All asking. Mr. Lincoln says that he has not yet determined; he cannot determine until he shall get all possible light upon the subject; but he is sure that he will say nothing 'inconsistent with the Constitution' — his favorite phrase....

With the rather argumentative and logical powers; with the intimate knowledge of politics and politicians and with the uncommon homespun common sense which his friends claim for him, Lincoln seems a man to act and decide for himself....He seems tremendously rough and tremendously honest and earnest. Lincoln talks excellently and with ease upon any topic, and tells a story with consummate tact. He seldom tells stories in his public speeches, however. When first in Congress he adopted the hifalutin style, but has since changed this for that Spartan simplicity of manner and diction which all great orators have preferred.

Of late also he tells fewer stories than usual in conversation. As a specimen of what his stories are — and for them he has a great popular reputation — he said one day: 'I once knew a good sound churchman, whom we'll call Brown, who was on a committee to erect a bridge over a very dangerous and rapid river. Architect after architect failed, and at last Brown said he had a friend named Jones who had built several bridges and could build this. 'Let's have him in,' said the committee. In came Jones. 'Can you build this bridge, sir?' 'Yes,' replied Jones, 'I could build a bridge to the infernal regions if necessary.' The sober committee was horrified; when Jones retired Brown thought it but fair to defend his friend. 'I know Jones so well,' said he, 'and he is so good an architect, that, if he states soberly and positively that he can build a bridge to Hades — why, I believe it. But I have my doubts about the abutment on the infernal side.'" You should see Lincoln's facial contortions at this point. 'So," Lincoln added, "when politicians said they could harmonize the Northern and Southern wings of the Democracy, why, I believed them, but I had my doubts about the abutment on the Southern side."

The story which Lincoln began to tell in Indiana the other day, but which was broken off by the departure of the train, is equally apropos: 'There was a man who was to be nominated at a political convention, and hired a horse of a livery-keeper to journey there. The horse was confoundedly slow, however," — (here the train moved off amid great laughter, but Lincoln concluded the story at the next station) — that the man arrived too late, and found his opponent nominated and the convention adjourned. When he arrived home he said to the stable-man, 'This is a fine animal of yours — a fine animal.' 'Do you think so?' 'Certainly, but never sell him to an undertaker.' 'Undertaker? Why not?' Because if the horse were hitched to a hearse resurrection day would come before he reached the cemetery.'" "So," concluded the President, "if my journey goes on at this slow rate it will be resurrection day before I reach the capital."

Such are the stories with which Lincoln delights his friends when in the mood, but of late the mood comes seldom.²

A peculiarity of the reception was the absence of all military display and the utter disregard of formal preparation. The City Authorities were not represented here, the Committee being on the train with Mr. Lincoln. The Mayor was not present, and the immense crowd were gathered together simply by their desire to see and to do honor to a single man — their choice, their hope, their reliance. There was no looking for a grand display, there was no promise, and no need of extraneous aids to attract the throng — no drums, no uniforms, no speeches from loud-mouthed cannon or soft-mouthed politicians, were promised, expected or desired.....

A hurried rush of eager spectators; a hurried forming of two hurried lines by the hurrying policemen; a hurried dash into the enclosure of a gasping, and gayly decorated locomotive engine; a hurried rising from sofa seats, and a hurrying step to the platform by happy passengers; a hurried grasping of a few hurrying hands; another hurried rush of the eager crowd to see the man of the hour; a hurried and exceedingly vigorous argument with the said hurrying crowd, by the police officers; a hurried rescue of Mr. Lincoln from the hand-shaking inflictions of admiring friends; a dozen hurried steps through the new depot building, a hurried passing into hundreds of carriages by the countless lucky ones, a hearty cheer from the now satisfied crowd, a five minute delay for an inscrutable something about the baggage, another cheer, a waving of innumerable white handkerchiefs from the hundreds of windows, a graceful raising of the hat by Mr. Lincoln in response thereto, a hurried order by a hurried Marshal, a hurried cracking of whips by many horses, and so, amid more cheers, more shouts of welcome, and more waving of more handkerchiefs, the procession began its march.⁴

The broad spaces, sidewalks, and street in that neighborhood and for some distance were crowded with solid masses of people — many thousands. The omnibuses and other vehicles had all been turned off, leaving an unusual hush in that busy part of the city. Presently two or three shabby hack barouches made their way with difficulty through the crowd and drew up at the Astor House entrance.

A tall figure stepped out of the center of these barouches, paused leisurely on the sidewalk, looked up at the granite walls and looming architecture of the grand old hotel — then, after a relieving stretch of arms and legs, turned around 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 concealed in that quiet. Cautious persons had feared some marked insult or indignity to the president-elect — for he possessed 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 a New York crowd.

From the top of an omnibus (driven up on side, close by, and blocked by the curbstone and the crowds) I had, I say, a capital view of it all and especially of Mr. Lincoln: his looks and gait; his perfect composure and coolness; his unusual and uncouth height; his dress of complete black, stovepipe hat pushed back on his head; dark-brown complexion; seamed and wrinkled yet canny-looking face; black, bush head of hair; disproportionately long neck; and his hands held behind, as he stood observing the people.

He looked with curiosity upon that immense sea of faces, and the sea of faces returned the look with similar curiosity. In both there was a dash of comedy, almost farce, such as Shakespeare puts in his blackest tragedies. The crowd that hemmed 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 lurked in hip- or breast-pocket there — ready, soon as break and riot came.

But no break or riot came. The tall figure gave another relieving stretch or two of arms and legs; then, with moderate pace, and accompanied by a few unknown-looking persons, ascended the portico steps of the Astor House, disappeared through its broad entrance — and the dumb-show ended.⁵

I am rather an old man to avail myself of such an excuse as I am now about to do, yet the truth is so distinct and presses itself so distinctly upon me that I cannot well avoid it, and that is that I did not understand when I was brought into this room that I was brought here to make a speech. It was not intimated to me that I was brought into the room where Daniel Webster and Henry Clay had made speeches, and where one in my position might be expected to do something like those men, or do something unworthy of myself or my audience. I therefore will beg you to make very great allowance for the circumstances under which I have been by surprise brought before you. Now, I have been in the habit of thinking and speaking for some time upon political questions that have for some years past agitated the country, and if I were disposed to do so, and we could take up some one of the issues as the lawyers call them, and I were called upon to make an argument about it to the best of my ability, I could do that without much preparation. But that is not what you desire to be done here to-night. I have been occupying a position, since the Presidential election, of silence, of avoiding public speaking, of avoiding public writing. I have been doing so because I thought, upon full consideration, that was the proper course for me to take. (Great applause.) I am brought before you now and required to make a speech, when you all approve, more than anything else, of the fact that I have been silent--(loud laughter, cries of 'Good--good,' and applause)--and now it seems to me from the response you give to that remark it ought to justify me in closing just here. (Great laughter.) I have not kept silent since the Presidential election from any party wantonness, or from any indifference to the anxiety that pervades the minds of men about the aspect of the political affairs of this country. I have kept silent for the reason that I supposed it was peculiarly proper that I should do so until the time came when, according to the customs of the country, I should speak officially. (Voice, partially interrogative, partially sarcastic, 'Custom of the country?") I heard some gentleman say, 'According to the custom of the country;' I alluded to the custom of the President elect at the time of taking his oath of office. That is what I meant by the custom of the country. I do suppose that while the political drama being enacted in this country at this time is rapidly shifting in its scenes, forbidding an anticipation with any degree of certainty to-day what we shall see to-morrow, that I was peculiarly fitting that I should see it all up to the last minute before I should take ground, that I might be disposed by the shifting of the scenes afterwards again to shift. (Applause.) I said several times upon this journey, and I shall now repeat it to you, that when the time does come I shall then take the ground that I think is right — (Interruption by cries of 'Good,' 'good,' and applause) — the ground I think is right for the North, for the South, for the East, for the West, for the whole country — (cries of 'Good,' 'Hurrah for Lincoln,' and great applause). And in doing so I hope to feel no necessity pressing upon me to say anything in conflict with the constitution, in conflict with the continued union of these States — (Applause) — in conflict with the perpetuation of the liberties of these people — (cheers) — or anything in conflict with anything whatever that I have ever given you reason to expect from me. (Loud cheers.) And now, my friends, have I said enough (Cries of 'No, no,' 'Go on,' &c.) Now, my friends, there appears to be a difference of opinion between you and me, and I feel called upon to insist upon deciding the question myself (enthusiastic cheers.) ⁹

It is with feelings of deep gratitude that I make my acknowledgement for this reception which has been given me in the great commercial city of New York. I cannot but remember that this is done by a people who do not by a majority agree with me in political sentiments. It is the more grateful [to me] because in this reception I see that, in regard to the great principles of our government, the people are very nearly or quite unanimous.

In reference to the difficulties that confront us at this time, and of which your Honor thought fit to speak so becomingly, and so justly as I suppose. I can only say that I fully concur in the sentiments expressed by the Mayor. In my devotion to the Union I hope I am behind no man in the Union; but as to the wisdom with which to conduct affairs tending to the preservation of the Union, I fear that even too great confidence may have been reposed [placed] in me. I am sure I bring a heart devoted to the work.

There is nothing that can ever bring me willingly to consent to the destruction of this Union, under which not only the commercial city of New York, but the whole country has acquired its greatness, unless it were to be that thing for which the Union itself was made. I understand a ship to be made for the carrying and preservation of the cargo, and so long as the ship can be saved, with the cargo, it should never be abandoned. This Union should likewise never be abandoned unless it fails and the probability of its preservation shall cease to exist without throwing the passengers and cargo overboard. So long, then, as it is possible that the prosperity and the liberties of the people can be preserved in the Union, it shall be my purpose at all times to preserve it. Thanking you for the reception given me, allow me to come to a close."¹⁶

"Many years ago, when I was a young lawyer, and Illinois was little settled, except on her southern border, I, with other lawyers, used to ride the circuit; journeying with the judge from county-seat to county-seat in quest of business. Once, after a long spell of pouring rain, which had flooded the whole country, transforming small creeks into rivers, we were often stopped by these swollen streams, which we with difficulty crossed. Still ahead of us was Fox River, larger than all the rest; and we could not help saying to each other, 'If these streams give us so much trouble, how shall we get over Fox River?' Darkness fell before we had reached that stream; and we all stopped at a log tavern, had our horses put out, and resolved to pass the night. Here we were right glad to fall in with the Methodist Presiding Elder of the circuit, who rode it in all weather, knew all its ways, and could tell us all about Fox River. So we all gathered around him, and asked him if he knew about the crossing of Fox River. 'O yes,' he replied, 'I know all about Fox River. I have crossed it often, and understand it well; but I have one fixed rule with regard to Fox River: I never cross it til I reach it.'"¹⁸