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corner of Wall and Broad streets. Both houses of Congress were already assembled in the Senate chamber. Vice-President Adams, who had entered upon his official duties shortly before Washington's arrival in the city, now received the President-elect and conducted him to a chair at the upper end of the hall. After a few moments of silence, when all was ready, the assembled body and their invited guests went out upon the Senate balcony, the appointed place for our earliest inaugural ceremony. This balcony, which fronted on Broad Street, was most appropriate; facing, as it did, a large, open space, and being long and ample, with Tuscan pillars at intervals, and cornices decked to symbolize the thirteen States.

The scene was impressive. Below appeared a swaying crowd, whose upturned, eager faces were packed in solid mass. Not a window or roof in the neighborhood was unoccupied. A loud shout went up as Washington came to the front of the balcony; cocked hats waved in the air, handkerchiefs fluttered. Placing his hand on his heart, Washington bowed again and again, and then took his seat in an arm-chair, between two of the pillars, near a small table. His suit was a dark brown, of American manufacture; at his side he wore a dress sword; white silk stockings and shoes whose decoration consisted of plain silver buckles completed his attire. His hair, after the fashion of the day, was powdered and gathered in a bag behind, and his head remained uncovered. Though erect still in figure, with a face which flushed when he spoke, and of that indescribable bearing, kingly yet unkingly, which inspired the deepest veneration while repelling all familiarity, Washington showed some signs of approaching age. A new set of false teeth, rudely made, gave to the lower part of his face an unusual aspect.1 To those who had long known him he seemed softening from the warrior into the sage. On one side of him stood Chancellor Livingston, whose stately figure was arrayed in full black; on the other side

1 See 2 Magazine Am. History, 30, for a dissertation upon this curious topic.

the square-set Adams, dressed more showily than Washington, but likewise in clothes of American fabric. Distinguished men in and out of Congress among the latter Hamilton, Knox, and Steuben - surrounded this conspicuous group. The chancellor came forward and gestured to the crowd. All was silent. Washington arose once more, and while Otis, the newly chosen secretary of the Senate, held an open Bible upon a rich crimson cushion, Chancellor Livingston administered the oath of office. The words were solemnly repeated by Washington, who said, audibly, "I swear," and then, with closed eyes and in a whispering voice, "so help me, God!" kissing the book as he concluded. Chancellor Livingston now turned again to the crowd, and, waving his hand, exclaimed loudly, "Long live George Washington, President of the United States!" Upon this signal a long, loud huzza rent the air, and cheer followed cheer. It seemed the welling up from thousands of hearts whose emotions could no longer be restrained. A flag was run up on a staff over the building, and the artillery guns at the Battery thundered the earliest of Presidential salutes.

Once more returning to the Senate chamber, the balcony audience took their seats and listened to the inaugural address, which Washington read to the assembled Congress from his manuscript. "It was a very touching scene," writes a member of the House, "and quite of the solemn kind. His aspect, grave almost to sadness; his modesty, actually shaking; his voice deep, a little tremulous, and so low as to call for close attention; added to the series of objects presented to the mind and overwhelming it, produced emotions of the most affecting kind upon the members." 99 1

This address opened by an allusion (sincere, doubtless, as Washington's private letters show) to the anxiety and diffidence he had felt and the conflict of his own emotions between a desire of retirement in his declining years on the one hand and his disposition, on the other, to heed the

11 Fisher Ames's Works, 1789.

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summons of Congress and the country. All he dared aver was his faithful study to collect his duty from a just appreciation of all the circumstances which might affect it; and all he dared hope was that, if grateful remembrance of the past or an affectionate sensibility of this transcendent proof of the confidence of his fellow-citizens had led him into error in accepting the trust, his country would not judge him unkindly. With this modest preface he expressed his wish to receive, as he had done while at the head of the army, a compensation which should merely defray his official expenses.

The leading theme of his discourse being personal, Washington touched but lightly upon measures of practical administration, deferring in this respect to the wisdom of Congress. But he threw out suggestions highly favorable to amending the Constitution in response to the general wish, and to pursuing in other respects such a course of popular conciliation as might knit the people of all the States into a harmonious union. For the prosperity of the new government he invoked once and again the favor of the Almighty Being, whose wisdom had thus far directed us.

After the conclusion of this address the grave assemblage proceeded on foot to St. Paul's chapel, on Broadway, where Bishop Provoost, who had been elected one of the chaplains of Congress, offered prayers; after which Washington's escort reconducted him to his house. This ended the ceremonials of our first inauguration: an inauguration to be distinguished from all later ones in respect of place, the date in the calendar year, the decidedly religious tone given to the exercises, and a minor feature or two which reminded some of a foreign coronation. Considering, however, the man and the occasion, nothing seemed out of tune with the popular expression. There were fireworks and illuminations in the evening. Multitudes sauntered down Broadway towards Bowling Green, to see the transparencies; one of which, by way of allegory, displayed Washington as Fortitude, with the two houses of Congress, as Justice and Wisdom, on either side; while another, in front

of the theatre in John Street, represented Fame descending from heaven and crowning her favorite son.1

May 7, 18.

It would have been well to let the inaugural exercises expire that night with the flame of the last rocket, but Congress would not so permit. Adopting a parliamentary custom still honored in several of the States, each house of Congress now proceeded to frame a formal reply to the inaugural address, and when it was ready the President was waited upon by two bodies in turn, the Speaker presenting the address of the House and the VicePresident that of the Senate. This called for two rejoinThe House ceremonial took place ders from the President. in a room adjoining the Representatives' chamber; but the Senate insisted upon marching in a body to the President's house, setting an example which the House followed the next winter, after the opening message had been delivered. And thus was instituted the practice, regularly kept up in the two houses of Congress until Jefferson's administration, of spending the early days of every session in deliberating upon the language of a composition to be borne through the streets in solemn procession and presented in form to a Chief Magistrate who, perchance, had first read it in the newspaper, and certainly could have little response to make. To Madison, if not to other members with a turn for composition, it sometimes fell to help frame both Presidential message and response; and the country has lost nothing in dignity by abandoning in later years this small culling among felicitous phrases to make up a Congressional tribute expressive of the maximum of praise with the minimum of promise.2

After these prolonged ceremonies had ended, Congress attacked in earnest the public business, of which it had already broken the crust. Certainly the Aurora of this new epoch proved a tardy riser. March 4th was ushered in with cannon and the ringing of bells,

March.

1 New York Gazette; 4 Irving's Washington; Griswold's Republican Court.

2 Annals of Congress; Benton's Abridgment; 3 Rives's Madison.

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but days passed and weeks before a quorum of either house could be procured. Federal Hall, a building not without architectural pretensions for the times, which had been remodelled and newly fitted up by private subscription for the use of Congress, still echoed to the sound of the workman's hammer. For formality's sake the old Congress continued its sessions in the mean time, so that, as one of the mortified expectants wrote, it seemed doubtful whether the old government were dead or the new one alive.1 This lethargy, which might have been thought inherited, had various explanations. Many delegates, of course, had long distances to come; the season, too, always unfavorable for stages and coasting vessels, had this year been marked by a long stress of very bad weather; and finally, in some Congressional districts the elections were held so late and contested so closely that the membership of the House was far from being complete at the time set for assembling. April 1. At length, however, with a bare quorum of thirty members, the House proceeded to organize; Frederick A. Muhlenberg, of Pennsylvania, was chosen speaker, and John Beckley, of Virginia, clerk. Nearly a week later April 6. the Senate quorum was made up, and for the first time in our history the constitutional Congress of two houses held session; but more than a month had elapsed since the date fixed by law.

Passing down Wall Street from the corner of Broadway on a sunny forenoon in May, let us cross the open space at the intersection of Broad Street, and, glancing first at the prim spire of a neighboring church, enter the plain doorway underneath the pillared balcony of Federal Hall. This is a long building, surmounted by an ugly cupola, and was once the City Hall. Vamped up, rechristened, shining resplendent with new paint, and surmounted by the eagle and Federal insignia, it reminds a New Yorker of one of his own city troop, lately paraded, whose familiar, shopman's face tried to scowl like Alexander through a bright and showy uniform. The stars and stripes fly from the apex of the

11 Fisher Ames's Works, 1789.