One of the front seats had been reserved for the use of Mrs. Grant and the friends who might be with her, but she did not take possession of it, and it remained unoccupied during the entire ceremonies. The seat retained for Mrs. Colfax and her friends was filled by that lady and her relatives, while every available square inch of the room in the vast gallery reflected some root, branch, or favorite of the men in power to-day who represent the leading Departments of the Government.
At precisely the hour of noon the buzz of whispered conversation was hushed, and in came the “coming man,” the cynosure of all eyes, Ulysses S. Grant, who was about to receive a new honor--the highest, the holiest, within the gift of a sovereign people. He was plainly attired in citizen’s dress, nothing noticeable but his yellow gloves. Many of the audience would have said: “He seems as modest, diffident, and shy as ever.” Others would have seen a man of power, reticent, self-possessed, and as far removed from his near surroundings as the first Napoleon upon the eve of battle. He took his seat in front of the Vice-President’s desk, where he sat as immovable as though encased in armor, while the President pro tempore administered the oath of office to Schuyler Colfax, and pronounced a requiem by simply saying, “the Fortieth Congress is no more.” In clear, distinct tones Mr. Colfax took the oath of office, and immediately entered upon his duties as Vice-President of the United States.
At the east front of the Capitol a different scene was enacting. At a proper distance from the platform stood the rank and file of the people, white, black, and intervening all shades, promiscuously mixed, a fair representation of the genuine glory of the Republic. For long, long hours the multitude had stood upon the cold, wet earth, waiting for a passing glimpse of the last closing scene; but their weary eyes were not to be feasted with dainty gold-laced foreign ministers and the great dignitaries of the land. It is true the Senate chamber could not hold the masses, but the national square contains room enough for all, and is it not time these old relics of another age were packed in the dust, like so many small clothes outgrown by the country? It is the royal people who are the sovereigns, and who has the right at any time to push them from their own marble temples with glittering bayonets? Soldiers are machinery to be used in time of war, and not engines of power in days of peace to thrust the cold steel into the breasts of loyal citizens.