Part 83 (1/2)

Their power for evil had been greatly diminished by the pressure of the swiftly moving tragedy of the war.

The appearance of this Congress was curiously plain and uninteresting.

With the exception of J. L. M. Curry of Alabama and Barksdale of Mississippi there was not a man among them of constructive ability as a statesman. Foote of Tennessee was noted for his high-flown English, his endless harangues and his elaborate historical ill.u.s.trations. Had his ability been equal to the intensity of his hatred for Davis he would have been a dangerous man to the administration. James Lyons of Virginia stood six feet three in his stockings, had fine, even, white teeth, and was considered the handsomest man in the a.s.sembly.

Yancey, the fierce, uncompromising agitator of secession, was too violent to command the influence to which his genius ent.i.tled him.

Senator Barton, fierce, impatient, bombastic, had long ago exhausted the vocabulary of invective and could only repeat himself in descending anti-climax.

Hill of Georgia was a young man of ability who gave promise of greater things under more favorable conditions.

The real business of this Congress was transacted in secret executive sessions. When the public was admitted, the people of Richmond generally looked on with contempt. They sneeringly referred to them as ”the College Debating Society, on Capitol Hill.”

The surroundings of their halls added to the impression of inefficiency--dingy, dirty and utterly lacking in the luxuries which the mind a.s.sociates with the exercise of sovereign power.

The Senate was forced to find quarters in the third story of the ”State House.” There was no gallery and the spectators were separated from the members by an improvised railing. The only difference noticeable between the Senators and the spectators was that the members had seats and the listeners and loafers had standing room only behind the rail.

The House of Representatives had a better chamber. But its walls were bare of ornament or paintings, its chairs were uncus.h.i.+oned, its desks dingy and slashed with pocket knives. Its members sat with their heels in the air and their bodies sprawled in every conceivable att.i.tude of ugly indifference.

The heart and brains of the South were on the field of battle--her n.o.blest sons destined to sleep in unmarked graves.

The scenes of personal violence which disgraced the sittings of this nondescript body of law makers did much to relieve the President of the burden of their hostility.

Foote of Tennessee provoked an encounter with Judge Dargan of Alabama which came near a tragic ending. The Judge was an old man of eccentric dress, much given to talking to himself--particularly as he wandered about the streets of Richmond. The gallery of the House loved him from the first for his funny habit of scratching his arm when the itch of eloquence attacked him. And he always addressed the Speaker as ”Mr.

Cheerman.” They loved him particularly for that. The eccentric Judge had a peculiarly fierce antipathy to Foote. Words of defiance had pa.s.sed between them on more than one occasion. The House was in secret night session. The Judge was speaking.

Foote sitting near, glanced up at his enemy and muttered:

”d.a.m.ned old scoundrel--”

The Judge's gray head suddenly lifted, he s.n.a.t.c.hed a bowie knife from his pocket and dashed for the man who had insulted him.

From every direction rose the shouts and cries of the excited House.

”Stop him!”

”Hold him!”

”Great G.o.d!”

”Judge--Judge!”

The wildest uproar followed. Half a dozen members threw themselves on the old man, dragged him to the floor, pinned him down and wrested the knife from his grasp.

When the eloquent gentleman from Tennessee saw that his a.s.sailant was disarmed and safely guarded by six stalwart men he struck an att.i.tude, expanded his chest, smote it with both hands and exclaimed with melodramatic gusto:

”I defy the steel of the a.s.sa.s.sin!”

The House burst into shouts of uncontrollable laughter, and adjourned for the night.

Another scene of more tragic violence occurred in the Senate--a hand to hand fight between William L. Yancey and Ben Hill. The Senator from Georgia threw his antagonist across a desk, held him there in a grip of steel and pounded his face until dragged away by friends. Yancey's spine was wrenched in the struggle, and it was rumored that this injury caused his death. It possibly hastened the end already sure from age, disease and careless living.