Eight persons are required to stand guard at the entrance; not all at once, but to alternate and keep a sufficient number on duty. An imperative necessity has drawn the line of demarcation for White House sight-seers. Entering the hall they are ushered at once into the East Room, and having inspected it to their heart’s content, return by the same way they came, unless choosing to ascend to the waiting room on the second floor, and risk an opportunity of seeing the President. In this case, to a student of human nature a rare opportunity for study is presented. Hardened, chronic office-seekers, schemers, conscienceless plotters, shabby women, forlorn, dismal, nay, often heart-broken, pert, self-assured youth, and even the small boy, with ragged jacket, one illy-adjusted suspender and rusty shoes walks in with an air that could only have been begotten by the consciousness that he was a part of the republic. Much patience brings the vigil of each to a close, and if the business be simply to shake hands with the President, that ceremony is speedily accomplished. At present it would be something like this: Entering as other people go out (for the other people are always there, going out before you, and coming in after you), a tall gentleman, very grand and very dignified, quite like a gigantic icicle—but no, that comparison is derogatory—let us say like Pompey’s Pillar—stands Chester A. Arthur. He glances at your card mechanically, he takes you by the hand most indifferently, and in an inexpressible broad voice, without a single inflection, he says, “It is a very pleasant day.” You may say that you are charmed to have an opportunity to pay your respects to Mr. President, or any such nonsense that comes uppermost, but it is not of the least consequence what you say, or whether you say anything at all. That is all, and you may salaam yourself out of the side door.