Richard B. Morris

The Constitution and the GuerriÈre

Madison’s Inauguration

Despite the unpopularity of the Embargo Act, James Madison, Jefferson’s choice to succeed him in the presidency, was elected by a large margin. Madison had served a long career in public life, beginning with the Continental Congress and the Constitutional Convention and more recently serving as Secretary of State under Jefferson. In the following selection Margaret Bayard Smith again reports the Washington scene, this time the events of March 4, 1809, Inauguration Day. Note that she mixes up the sequence of events by starting with the reception after the inauguration before describing the inauguration.

Today after the inauguration we all went to Mrs. Madison’s. The street was full of carriages and people, and we had to wait near half an hour before we could get in—the house was completely filled, parlours, entry, drawing room and bed room. Near the door of the drawing room Mr. and Mrs. Madison stood to receive their company. She looked extremely beautiful, was dressed in a plain cambric dress with a very long train, plain round the neck without any handkerchief, and beautiful bonnet of purple velvet, and white satin with white plumes. She was all dignity, grace and affability.

Mr. Madison shook my hand with all the cordiality of old acquaintance, but it was when I saw our dear and venerable Mr. Jefferson that my heart beat. When he saw me, he advanced from the crowd, took my hand affectionately, and held it five or six minutes; one of the first things he said was, “Remember the promise you have made me, to come to see us next summer; do not forget it,” said he, pressing my hand, “for we shall certainly expect you.” I assured him I would not, and told him I could now wish him joy with much more sincerity than this day 8 years ago.

“You have now resigned a heavy burden,” said I.

“Yes indeed,” he replied, “and am much happier at this moment than my friend.”

The crowd was immense both at the Capitol and here; thousands and thousands of people thronged the avenue. The Capitol presented a gay scene. Every inch of space was crowded and there being as many ladies as gentlemen, all in full dress, it gave it rather a gay than a solemn appearance—there was an attempt made to appropriate particular seats for the ladies of public characters, but it was found impossible to carry it into effect, for the sovereign people would not resign their privileges and the high and low were promiscuously blended on the floor and in the galleries. Mr. Madison was extremely pale and trembled excessively when he first began to speak, but soon gained confidence and spoke audibly.

Mrs. Smith now interrupts her letter (to her sister-in-law) and finishes it the next day. The event she describes is the inauguration ball at Long’s Hotel.

Last evening, I endeavored calmly to look on, and amidst the noise, bustle and crowd, to spend an hour or two in sober reflection, but my eye was always fixed on our venerable friend [Jefferson]. When he approached my ear listened to catch every word, and when he spoke to me my heart beat with pleasure. Personal attachment produces this emotion, and I did not blame it. But I have not this regard for Mr. Madison, and I was displeased at feeling no emotion when he came up and conversed with me. He made some of his old kind of mischievous allusions, and I told him I found him still unchanged. I tried in vain to feel merely as a spectator; the little vanities of my nature often conquered my better reason.

The room was so terribly crowded that we had to stand on the benches; from this situation we had a view of the moving mass; for it was nothing else. It was scarcely possible to elbow your way from one side to another, and poor Mrs. Madison was almost pressed to death, for every one crowded round her, those behind pressing on those before, and peeping over their shoulders to have a peep of her, and those who were so fortunate as to get near enough to speak to her were happy indeed. As the upper sashes of the windows could not let down, the glass was broken, to ventilate the room, the air of which had become oppressive.