It is now forty years since I first saw and heard Abraham Lincoln, but
the impression which he left on my mind is ineffaceable. After his great
successes in the West he came to New York to make a political address.
He appeared in every sense of the word like one of the plain people among
whom he loved to be counted. At first sight there was nothing impressive
or imposing about him--except that his great stature singled him out from
the crowd: his clothes hung awkwardly on his giant frame; his face was of
a dark pallor, without the slightest tinge of color; his seamed and
rugged features bore the furrows of hardship and struggle; his deep-set
eyes looked sad and anxious; his countenance in repose gave little
evidence of that brain power which had raised him from the lowest to the
highest station among his countrymen; as he talked to me before the
meeting, he seemed ill at ease, with that sort of apprehension which a
young man might feel before presenting himself to a new and strange
audience, whose critical disposition he dreaded. It was a great
audience, including all the noted men--all the learned and cultured of
his party in New York editors, clergymen, statesmen, lawyers, merchants,
critics.
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