On arriving
in Washington, Jackson had refused to make the usual call of the
incoming upon the outgoing Executive, mainly because he held Adams
responsible for the news paper virulence which had caused Mrs. Jackson
such distress and had possibly shortened her life. Deserted by all
save his most intimate friends, the New Englander faced the last hours
of his Administration in bitterness. His diary bears ample evidence of
his ill-humor and chagrin. On the 3d of March he took up his residence
on Meridian Hill, near the western limits of the city; and thence he
did not venture until the festivities of the ensuing day were ended.
No amount of effort on the part of mediators ever availed to bring
about a reconciliation between him and his successor.

According to custom, the inaugural program came to an end with a
reception at the White House; and arrangements were made to entertain
a large number of guests. Police control, however, proved wholly
inadequate, and when the throng that followed the President up the
Avenue reached the executive grounds it engulfed the mansion and
poured in by windows as well as doors, until the reception rooms were
packed to suffocation. Other guests, bidden and unbidden--"statesmen
and stable-boys, fine ladies and washerwomen, white people and
blacks"--continued for hours to besiege the doors. "I never saw such a
mixture," records Judge Story; "the reign of King Mob seemed
triumphant. I was glad to escape from the scene as soon as possible."
The President, too, after being jostled for an hour, very willingly
made his way by a side entrance to the street and thence to his hotel.

A profusion of refreshments, including barrels of orange punch, had
been provided; and an attempt to serve the guests led to a veritable
saturnalia. Waiters emerging from doors with loaded trays were borne
to the floor by the crush; china and glassware were smashed; gallons
of punch were spilled on the carpets; in their eagerness to be served
men in muddy boots leaped upon damask-covered chairs, overturned
tables, and brushed bric-a-brac from mantles and walls. "It would have
done Mr. Wilberforce's heart good," writes a cynical observer, "to
have seen a stout black wench eating in this free country a jelly with
a gold spoon at the President's House." Only when some thoughtful
person directed that tubs of punch be placed here and there on the
lawn was the congestion indoors relieved. When it was all over, the
White Hou