"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.
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