three o'clock in the afternoon
Friday came . Early in the day multitudes of people began to collect in the street , growing in numbers and enthusiasm as the hours wore on , till , in the afternoon , the splendid thoroughfare of New York from Fourth Street down to the Cortlandt Ferry -- a stretch of miles -- was a solid mass of humanity ; thousands and tens of thousands , doubled , quadrupled , and multiplied again . Through the morning this crowd in squads and companies traversed the streets , collected on the corners , congregating chiefly about the armory of their pet regiment , the Seventh , on Lafayette Square , -- one great mass gazing unweariedly at its windows and walls , then moving on to be replaced by another of the like kind , which , having gone through the same performance , gave way in turn to yet others , eager to take its place . So the fever burned ; the excitement continued and augmented till , towards three o'clock in the afternoon , the mighty throng stood still , and waited . It was no ordinary multitude ; the wealth , refinement , fashion , the greatness and goodness of a vast city were there , pressed close against its coarser and darker and homelier elements . Men and women stood alike in the crowd , dainty patrician and toil-stained laborer , all thrilled by a common emotion , all vivified -- if in unequal degree -- by the same sublime enthusiasm . Overhead , from every window and doorway and housetop , in every space and spot that could sustain one , on ropes , on staffs , in human hands , waved , and curled , and floated , flags that were in multitude like the swells of the sea ; silk , and bunting , and painted calico , from the great banner spreading its folds with an indescribable majesty , to the tiny toy shaken in a baby hand .