Besides Fulton ferry, off and on for years, I knew and frequented
Broadway--that noted avenue of New York's crowded and mixed humanity,
and of so many notables. Here I saw, during those times, Andrew Jackson,
Webster, Clay, Seward, Martin Van Buren, filibuster Walker, Kossuth,
Fitz Greene Halleck, Bryant, the Prince of Wales, Charles Dickens, the
first Japanese ambassadors, and lots of other celebrities of the time.
Always something novel or inspiriting; yet mostly to me the hurrying and
vast amplitude of those never-ending human currents. I remember seeing
James Fenimore Cooper in a court-room in Chambers street, back of the
city hall, where he was carrying on a law case--(I think it was a charge
of libel he had brought against some one.) I also remember seeing Edgar
A. Poe, and having a short interview with him, (it must have been in
1845 or '6,) in his office, second story of a corner building, (Duane
or Pearl street.) He was editor and owner or part owner of "the Broadway
Journal." The visit was about a piece of mine he had publish'd. Poe was
very cordial, in a quiet way, appear'd well in person, dress, &c. I
have a distinct and pleasing remembrance of his looks, voice, manner and
matter; very kindly and human, but subdued, perhaps a little jaded. For
another of my reminiscences, here on the west side, just below Houston
street, I once saw (it must have been about 1832, of a sharp, bright
January day) a bent, feeble but stout-built very old man, bearded,
swathed in rich furs, with a great ermine cap on his head, led and
assisted, almost carried, down the steps of his high front stoop (a
dozen friends and servants, emulous, carefully holding, guiding him) and
then lifted and tuck'd in a gorgeous sleigh, envelop'd in other furs,
for a ride. The sleigh was drawn by as fine a team of horses as I ever
saw. (You needn't think all the best animals are brought up nowadays;
never was such horseflesh as fifty years ago on Long Island, or south,
or in New York city; folks look'd for spirit and mettle in a nag, not
tame speed merely.) Well, I, a boy of perhaps 13 or 14, stopp'd and
gazed long at the spectacle of that fur-swathed old man, surrounded by
friends and servants, and the careful seating of him in the sleigh. I
remember the spirited, champing horses, the driver with his whip, and a
fellow-driver by his side, for extra prudence. The old man, the subject
of so much attention, I can almost see now. It was John Jacob Astor.
The years 1846, '47, and there along, see me still in New York City,
working as writer and printer, having my usual good health, and a good
time generally.