"Boss" Tweed : the story of a grim generation / by Denis Tilden Lynch.

230 "Boss" Tweed
Lincoln arrived in New York at 2:55 in the afternoon. Digtant guns from the forts in the harbor boomed a welcome.
The President-elect, as he left the old Hudson River Railroad
depot at Thirtieth Street and Ninth Avenue, stepped into an
open barouche which had been used by the Prince of Wales some
months before on his visit to the city. Mrs. Lincoln and
other members of the family rode in another carriage. There
were thirty carriages in line. A platoon of mounted police
led the way. Their progress was slow. It took them more
than an hour to cover the three miles or so to Lincoln's hotel.
The plaza in front of the Astor House was thronged with
men. There were few women. Some five hundred policemen,
their faces tense, held the crowd in place. Hemmed in by
the multitude was a Broadway stage coach. It was drawn up
against the curb. On a seat on top of the coach sat a man
with a large head and long hair. He was a poet. His name
was Walt Whitman.
Eighteen years later, poor and partly paralyzed, the poet
described the scene to a group of friends in a small hall in
Fourteenth Street. They had paid to hear him. Whitman's
description is preserved in The Tribune (Semi-Weekly edition)
of April 18, 1879:
"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
here from the West to remain a few hours and then to pass on to
Washington, to prepare for the inauguration. I saw him on 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,
streets and sidewalks in the 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 some difficulty through the crowd and drew up at the Astor House entrance.
A tall figure slipped out of the center of these barouches, paused
leisurely on the sidewalk, looked up at the dark granite walls and
looming architecture of the grand old hotel-then, after a relieving
stretch of arms and legs, turned round for over a minute to scan