Inauguration

Eagerly and a little apprehensively, Washington is preparing for President-elect Eisenhower's inauguration. Unlike the coronation of a British monarch, or the installation of a Chibcha chief, the inauguration of an American President has never quite lost a certain air of improvisation: democracy, on this occasion, wants to wear a silk hat, but it also wants to knock silk hats into the Potomac.

Rummage-Sales & Muddy Boots. At the first inauguration, in 1789 in New York City, someone forgot to provide a Bible for the. President's oath. George Washington had all but started to raise his right hand when a frantic messenger turned up with the Good Book (which he had found in a downtown tavern where the St. John's Lodge, Free and Accepted Masons used to hold its meetings).

Many inaugurations have run into weather trouble. At Grant's second inauguration ball, the shivering guests danced with their overcoats on, and William Howard Taft's inauguration was attended by snow, sleet and storm. But probably the Presidents most plagued by the weather were the Harrisons. At Benjamin Harrison's inauguration in 1889, "rain," according to one account, "fell in torrents ... Pennsylvania Avenue was a moving ocean of umbrellas." Nevertheless, he allowed the ceremony to take place in the open, which was courageous considering what happened to his grandfather, William Henry Harrison, who appeared at his inauguration without hat and overcoat, and took more than an hour to read his 8,000-word inaugural address, the longest in U.S. history. Never was author's pride more bitterly rewarded; he caught a chill and died a month later.

The arrival of a new White House tenant has usually been attended by entertainment--balls, parades, Indian war dances, even a White House rummage sale. The sale was staged by Chester Arthur, who wanted to get rid of a lot of old "junk," including a pair of Lincoln's trousers and a magnificent sideboard which had been presented to the former First Lady, Mrs. Rutherford B. Hayes (also known as "Lemonade Lucy"), by the W.C.T.U. (it fetched a high price from a prominent saloonkeeper).

The most raucous inauguration of all was that of Andrew Jackson, attended by hordes of enthusiastic supporters from the West. After the inauguration, in the words of a contemporary writer, "a motley concourse of people, riding, running helter-skelter," followed Jackson to the White House, where "it was understood that refreshments were to be served." The mob stormed the gates and doors, smashed china and glassware, trampled on delicate satin chairs with muddy boots.

Almost equally memorable was the inauguration of Abraham Lincoln and Vice President Andrew Johnson in 1865. Johnson had just got through an attack of typhoid fever and, though a light drinker, he fortified himself with some brandy, chased by several slugs of whisky. When his turn came to take the oath, he stood up, weaving slightly, and made an unscheduled but extremely fiery speech ("Humble as I am, plebeian as I may be deemed, permit me in the presence of this brilliant assemblage . . ."). "Senators on the Republican side." reported the New York World, "began to hide their heads." Notables tugged at his coattails, but Johnson paid no heed. The Vice President was quite drunk.

White Ties & Tangerines. Ike's inauguration may not be up to such precedents, but it promises to be the biggest show in decades. The three-day program includes a special reception for governors, a symphony concert, a "festival" with Hollywood and Broadway stars, and not one but two inaugural balls. Faced with an avalanche of requests for invitations, the Inaugural Committee--at Ike's own suggestion--arranged for one ball to be held in the National Guard Armory, the other in Georgetown University gym. Ike and Mamie will visit both, and the Cabinet will be split between them. White tie is ordained for gentlemen, but black ties will not be turned away. "Chesterfield coats will prevail," declared Robert E. Stein, a Washington tailor, "unless someone is lucky enough to own one of those beautiful old Inverness capes."

The inauguration parade, to be led at Ike's request by a delegation from Kansas, will include 25,000 marchers. In addition to military units and the usual state contingents, there will be a mounted sheriff's posse from Clark County, Nev., a dog team from Alaska, and a Florida float carrying Miss America of 1952 and other beauties who will toss tangerines at the spectators (oranges were considered too dangerous).

Thirty-four inaugural subcommittees, with 2,600 members, are hard at work. There is a committee for transportation and a committee for "ethnic groups," a committee to distribute tickets and a committee to guard against confidence men, a hotel committee and a non-hotel committee (the latter in charge of finding rooms and beds outside Washington's already booked hotels). With all this organization, Washingtonians wonder whether there will be any room left for the raucous and the unexpected. Certainly, no one will forget about the Bible this time. Ike will use the same Bible--still treasured by the Masons--which George Washington kissed 164 years ago.

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