CHAPTER XXVII.INAUGURATION DAY AT WASHINGTON.
My Own Private Opinion—Sublime Humanity in the Lump—The Climate Disagrees—The Little “Sons of War” Feeling Bad—“Think of the Babies”—Brutal Mothers—The “Boys in Blue”—“Broke their Backs and Skinned their Noses”—Our Heroes—Later Festivities—“Devoted to Art”—Scene in “the Avenue”—A Lively Time—The Mighty Drum-Major—West Point Warriors Criticised—Faultlessly Ridiculous—Pitilessly Dressed—“Taken for a Nigger”—Magnificent Display—The Oldest Regiment in the States—The President—The Senators—Invitation of the Coldstream Guards—The Strangers—Generals Sherman and Sheridan—Admiral Porter—Sketches of Well-known Men—The Diplomatic Corps—Blacque Bey—Full Turkish Costume—Sir Edward Thornton—The Japanese Minister—Senator Sumner Appears—The Supreme Court—Senator Wilson—Cragin, Logan, and Bayard—Vice-President Colfax—Enter, the President—Congress Alive Again—The Valedictory—Taking the Oaths—“The Little Gentleman in the Big Chair”—His Little Speech—His Wife and Family Behind—The New President—Memories of Another Scene—Grand Jubilation—The Procession—The Curtain Falls.
I don’t like Inauguration day, but I hope you do, or will, when I have told you what a gala day it is to many—to all who stay at home, and catch the splendor which it sheds, through lines of printer’s ink.
Surely, there is something inspiriting and uplifting in the sight of massed humanity, in throbbing drums and soaring music, in waving pennons and flashing lances, all laden with heroic memories, all bristling with intelligence and the conscious power of human freedom; but, in our climate, and at the inauguration season of the year, enthusiasmand patriotism demand a fearful price in nerve, muscle, and human endurance. If you doubt it, think of the West Point Cadets—those young sons of war, inured to martial training—who sank to the pavements in the ranks, at the last inauguration of President Grant, overcome, and insensible with the bitter cold which chilled and benumbed even the warm currents of their strong young hearts. Think of the babies who shuddered and cried in their mothers’ arms, whowouldsee the sight, if baby died!
No less the second inaugural procession of President Grant transcended, in civic and military splendor, any sight seen in Washington since the great review when the boys in blue, fresh from the victory of bloody battle-fields, broke their backs and skinned their noses, in the June sun of 1865, for the sake of shouting thousands who came hither to behold them. Oh what a sight was that! when the bronzed and haggard, and aged-in-youth faces of the boys before us, made our hearts weep afresh at the thought of the upturned faces of the boys left behind—some in the cruel wilderness, some in half dug graves on solitary hill-sides, and lonely plains—all left behind forever, for freedom’s sake. Who that knew old Washington can forget it? This is another Washington. But here they come! Safe from cold and wind, thanks to—I look up. From this window, on Fifteenth street, you can see Pennsylvania avenue past the Treasury building, (whose marble steps are boarded in from the advancing people,) to the Executive Mansion, glittering white through the leafless trees just beyond. Opposite is Lafayette square, the prettiest little park of its size in the United States. Above, you see the towering mansard of Corcoran’s building, “Devoted to Art,” andjust this side, the lofty brown front of the Freedman’s Savings Bank. The avenue opens before you—a broad, straight vista, with garlands of flags, of every nation and hue, flung across from roof to roof. Above glitters an absolutely cloudless sky, dazzlingly blue, and pitilessly cold. The very tree-boughs swing like crystals glittering and freezing in the sun. The air seems full of rushing fiends, or rushing locomotives running into each other with hideous shrieks, whichever you please (on the whole, I prefer locomotives, being fresher). Your imagination need not be Dantean to make you feel that there is a dreadful battle going on in the air, above you and about you. The imps come down and seize an old man’s hat, and fly off with a woman’s veil, and blow a little boy into a cellar. The bigger air-warriors, intent on bigger spoil, sweep down banners, swoop off with awnings, concentrate their forces into swirling cyclones in the middle of the streets, and bang away at plate-glass windows till they prance in their sockets.
Before such unfriendly and tricksy foes, through the biting air, comes the great procession. First, a battalion of mounted police; then West Point, with its band and drum-major. Not a sprite of the air has caught the baton of its drum-major. Not a sting of zero, has stiffened that fantastic arm as he lifts and swings the symbol of his foolishness. He is as inimitable in the bleak and dusty street as when I saw him last, on the velvet sward of West Point, that delicious evening in October. Something utterly ridiculous to look at,isrefreshing, and anything more faultlessly ridiculous than the drum-major of West Point I never saw.
I believe it is fashionable to find fault with West Point;but I wouldn’t give much for anybody who could see these boys and not admire them. They have their faults (their caste and their army exclusiveness sometimes reaches an absurd pitch) but look at them! What faces, what muscle, what manhood! Their movement is the perfect poetry of motion; a hundred men stepping as one. What marching, and at what odds! They are so pitilessly dressed! Thousands of men come behind, warmly muffled; but the West Point Cadets have on their new uniforms, single jackets. More than one will receive through it the seeds of death this morning. What wonder, that two while standing in line sank insensible with the cold not an hour ago. But, dear me! to think that more than one of them should be taken for a “nigger!” The colored Cadet is whiter than a dozen of his class-mates, and has straight hair.
In the distance rises, wave on wave, a glittering sea of helmets; bayonets flash, plumes wave, bands play; all tell one story—the love of military pomp and parade, the pride and patriotism which brings these soldiers back to celebrate the second inauguration of their chief; and at what cost of suffering to many of them. What cold and hunger, and delay on the way, and now! what nerve and will it takes to march in a wind like this!
After West Point comes Annapolis. Pretty “Middies,” young and slender, in their suits of dark blue! As a body, they are younger than the West Pointers, and slighter. Nor can any comparison be drawn between their marching, for the Middies drag their howitzers. They look true sons of their class; and for intelligence, chivalric manners, and gentle manhood, the true officer of the American navy is unsurpassed.
The Midshipmen are followed by the famous United States Marine Corps, then the Old Guard of New York with Dodworth’s band, the Washington Light Infantry, the Corcoran Zouaves, the Washington Grenadiers, the St. Louis National Guard. The Philadelphia City Troop, in navy-blue jackets, tight knee-breeches, white braid trimming, high boots, bearskin helmets with silver mountings—the oldest regiment in the United States, two years older than the government, organized in 1774, and furnished men to every war of this country since. It was in the battles of Trenton and Princeton, in the Revolutionary War, and has in its armory a letter from General Washington thanking the regiment for its services.
Now, the President’s mounted guard, in dark blue, yellow-trimmed uniform, regulation-hat and black feathers. Now, the President in open barouche, drawn by four horses, with the Senate Committee, Senators Cragin, Logan and Bayard. The President looksdecidedlydecidedlycooler than usual, and less indifferent; at least he has just lifted his hat to the shouting crowd in the street, which requires an impulse of self-denial this morning.
Now come the Boston National Lancers. They have left their milk-white steeds there, and to their chagrin, no doubt, are mounted on sorry Virginian roans instead,—old road and car horses, who act dazed and daft under their light unwonted burdens. The Lancers are the oldest cavalry regiment of Massachusetts, organized in 1836, under Governor Edward Everett. This dashing looking squadron, which has the reputation of being one of the most perfect military organizations of the United States, is dressed in scarlet cloth coats, faced with a light blue and trimmed with gold lace, sky-blue pants with yellowstripes on sides, Polish dragoon cap, gold trimmings, flowing white feathers andaiguillette, cavalry boots with patent leather tops, white belts and shoulder straps; red epaulettes, with blue trimmings for the privates, and gold for the officers, and armed with cavalry sabre and lance, on which is appended a small red flag.
The Albany Burgess Corps, another famous regiment, led by Capt. Henry B. Beecher, son of the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, make a splendid appearance. They are uniformed in scarlet coats, trimmed with white, light blue pants, buff stripe, and bearskin shakoes, with gold clasp—similar to the celebrated English Coldstream Guards.
But we shall not reach the capitol till next week, unless we leave the rest of this splendid procession,—the “orphans of soldiers and sailors,” the burnished and flower-garlanded fire-engines, the brave firemen, black and white, and the civic societies. The strangers who rushed on to inauguration, swarm the galleries till they overflow as they did onCredit Mobilierdays. Generals Sherman, and Sheridan and Admiral Porter; the first tall and red; the second, little, round, red and bullet-headed; the third, tall, straight and black, are all being intently gazed at.
The Diplomatic Corps enter the chamber by the main entrance, led by Blacque Bey, the dean of the Corps, a tall, dark, gray-haired, handsome man, wearing scarlet fez and full Turkish court regalia; next, the English Minister, Sir Edward Thornton, a white-haired, ruddy-faced, black-eyed, shrewd-looking gentleman; next, the Peruvian Minister, Colonel Freerye, followed by the Italian and French Ministers, with all the representatives of foreign governments, in order of seniority—over fifty ministers, secretaries andattachésin full uniform, exceptingMr. Mori, Minister from Japan, in citizen’s dress. Just now Mr. Sumner appears, for the first time in months. He looks pale, and shows the traces of the acute suffering through which he has passed. His appearance creates a buzz on floor and in gallery, and many senators go over to him and exchange friendly greetings. Now the Supreme Court appear, in their robes of office, kicking them high up behind, as usual, and take their seats in front of the Vice-President’s desk. At fifteen minutes to twelve o’clock, Vice-President elect Wilson, escorted by Senators Cragin, Logan, and Bayard, comes down the centre aisle and takes his seat at the right of Vice-President Colfax.
At three minutes before twelve, the President appears, leaning on the arm of Senator Cragin, followed by Logan and Bayard, and takes the seat assigned him, in front of the Secretary’s table. A deep hush falls on the throng, as if something awful were about to happen. It’s a sort of Judgment-Day atmosphere, yet nothing more terrific follows than the pleasant voice of Vice-President Colfax, beginning the words of his valedictory. (My! I forgot to say that the dying Congress has come to life again, and is comfortably, and perforce quietly seated between the Senate and Diplomatic Corps.) Now comes the new Vice-President’s little speech. Then the oaths of office, the swearing in of new senators, the proclamation of the President convening an extra session of the Senate, to begin this minute, when all start for the back door—no, it’s the front door of the Capitol, the Supreme Court leading, kicking up their gowns worse than usual.
On the eastern portico, what do we see? Below, a vast mass of human beings, line on line of soldiers—cavalry, artillery and infantry; a line of battle flags at thebase of the steps—shot-riddled, battle-torn, all shuddering or numb in the freezing air. Before us, a little gentleman sits down in a big chair—Washington’s inaugural chair, we are told. (Oh! no, we’re not at all sentimental.)
A big gentleman, the Chief Justice, who has most unaccountably fringed out in a long grey beard and a muffling moustache, holds forth with solemnity a big Bible. The little gentleman kisses it—kisses these words from the eleventh chapter of Isaiah:
“‘And the spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and of the fear of the Lord.“‘And shall make him of quick understanding in the fear of the Lord; and he shall not judge after the sight of his eyes, neither reprove after the hearing of his ears.’
“‘And the spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and of the fear of the Lord.
“‘And shall make him of quick understanding in the fear of the Lord; and he shall not judge after the sight of his eyes, neither reprove after the hearing of his ears.’
Then he rises, and, with manuscript in his hands, begins to “battle with the breeze,” and to read his inaugural, which nobody hears. Behind him sits his wife and daughter, the ladies of the Cabinet, the Diplomatic Corps. What a compound of the ornamental and comfortable? Yet nobody is comfortable—not here. We can catch no word through the outbearing wind, yet know that for the second time Ulysses S. Grant has sworn to the oath of office, according to the constitution, and for four more years is made President of the United States. It seems but yesterday we saw a loftier head, a sadder face, bowed above that book, within one little month of its eternity; when, amid the booming of cannon and the huzzas of the people, Abraham Lincoln for the second time was pronounced the people’s President, and by the same lips which now utter the same words for another, a happier, a more fortunate man.
Now the carnival of salute; the Middies fire their howitzers, thirty-seven guns; the Second Artillery fire twenty-one salvos; the Firemen ring the bells of their engines; ten thousand men warm their hands with hat swinging, and make their throats sore with shouting. Amid all, the multitude and the procession surge back towards the Executive Mansion. Between the latter and Lafayette square, the review, the return march, the military pageant culminates. The President, with lady friends, enters the pavilion built for the purpose, and the troops march by, encircling two solid squares; the West Point Cadets appear below Corcoran’s building, marching downward, as the magnificent New York Regiment—a thousand men—just arrived after an all night’s freezing delay, have reached Fifteenth street, marching up. The entire body of soldiery march and mass, till as far as the eyes can reach through the glittering sunshine, one only sees gleaming helmets, flashing bayonets, glancing sabers, the Cadets on double quick, the Middies firing their howitzers, officers displaying fine horses and uniforms, drum-majors tossing their batons, bands playing, and cannon thundering.
Amid all these the four horses dashing before the Presidential barouche, bear the President to the Executive door, which now mercifully shuts them from our sight.