carts, filled with women and children, some in finery and some in
rags, for it was the People's president." The great square which now
separates the Capitol and the Library of Congress was in Jackson's day
shut in by a picket fence. This enclosure was filled with people--"a
vast agitated sea"--while in all directions the slopes of Capitol Hill
were thickly occupied. At noon watchers on the west portico, looking
down Pennsylvania Avenue, saw a group of gentlemen issue from the
Indian Queen and thread its way slowly up the hill. All wore their
hats except one tall, dignified, white-haired figure in the middle,
who was quickly recognized as Jackson. Passing through the building,
the party, reinforced by Chief Justice Marshall and certain other
dignitaries, emerged upon the east portico, amid the deafening cheers
of the spectators. The President-elect bowed gravely, and, stepping
forward to a small cloth-covered table, read in a low voice the
inaugural address; the aged Chief Justice, "whose life was a protest
against the political views of the Jackson party," administered the
oath of office; and the ceremony was brought to a close in the
customary manner by the new Executive kissing the Bible. Francis Scott
Key, watching the scene from one of the gates, was moved to exclaim:
"It is beautiful, it is sublime."

Thus far the people had been sufficiently impressed by the dignity of
the occasion to keep their places and preserve a reasonable silence.
But when the executive party started to withdraw, men, women, and
children rushed past the police and scrambled up the steps in a wild
effort to reach their adored leader and grasp his hand. Disheveled and
panting, the President finally reached a gate at which his horse was
in waiting; and, mounting with difficulty, he set off for the White
House, followed by a promiscuous multitude, "countrymen, farmers,
gentlemen, mounted and unmounted, boys, women, and children, black and