on the street cordially shaking
the hand of an old acquaintance.

After his breakfast-hour, says Mr. Lamon, he would appear at his office
and go about the labors of the day with all his might, displaying
prodigious industry and capacity for continuous application, although he
never was a fast worker. Sometimes it happened that he came without his
breakfast; and then he would have in his hands a piece of cheese or
bologna sausage, and a few crackers, bought by the way. At such times he
did not speak to his partner, or his friends if any happened to be
present; the tears perhaps struggling into his eyes, while his pride was
struggling to keep them back. Mr. Herndon knew the whole story at a
glance. There was no speech between them, but neither wished the
visitors at the office to witness the scene. So Lincoln retired to the
back office while Mr. Herndon locked the front one and walked away with
the key in his pocket. In an hour or more the latter would return and
perhaps find Lincoln calm and collected. Otherwise he went out again and
waited until he was so. Then the office was opened and everything went
on as usual.

"His mind was filled with gloomy forebodings and strong apprehensions of
impending evil, mingled with extravagant visions of personal grandeur
and power. He never doubted for a moment that he was formed for some
'great or miserable end.' He talked about it frequently and sometimes
calmly. Mr. Herndon remembers many of these conversations in their
office at Springfield and in their rides around the circuit. Lincoln
said the impression had grown in him all his life; but Mr. Herndon
thinks it was about 1840 that it took the character of a 'religious
conviction.' He had then suffered much, and considering his
opportunities he had achieved great things. He was already a leader
among men, and a most brilliant career had been promised him by the
prophetic enthusiasm of many friends. Thus encouraged and stimulated,
and feeling himself growing gradually stronger and stronger in the
estimation of 'the plain people' whose voice was more potent than all
the Warwicks, his ambition painted the rainbow of glory in the sky,
while his morbid melancholy supplied the clouds that were to overcast
and obliterate it with the wrath and ruin of the tempest. To him it was
fate, and there was no escape or defense. The presentiment never
deserted him. It was as clear, as perfect, as certain as any image
conveyed by the senses. He ha