The tension of a great fear
had gripped the hearts of the crowd with icy fingers. The stoutest soul
felt its spell and was powerless to shake it off.
Was it the end of the Republic? Or the storm clouded dawn of a new and
more wonderful life? God only could tell, and there were few men present
who dared to venture a prediction.
A wave of subdued excitement rippled the throng and every eye was
focused on the procession from the Senate Chamber.
"They're coming!" Betty whispered excitedly.
The contrast between the retiring President, James Buchanan, and Abraham
Lincoln was startling even at the distance of the first view from the
platform. The man of the old era was heavy and awkward in his movements,
far advanced in years, with thin snow white hair, his pallid full face
seamed and wrinkled and his head curiously inclined to the left
shoulder. An immense white cravat like a poultice pushed his high
standing collar up to the ears. The sharp contrast of the black
swallow-tailed coat, with the dead white of cravat, collar, face and
hair, suggested the uncanny idea of a moving corpse.
With his eyes fixed on Buchanan, John suddenly exclaimed:
"A man who's dead and don't know it!"
Only for a moment did the actual President hold the eye. The man of the
hour loomed large at the head of the procession and instantly fixed the
attention of every man and woman within the range of vision.
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