THESE OUR LAWMAKERS
The House of Representatives, albeit presenting an average of conduct
equal to that of any corresponding chamber in the world, is a
rough-and-tumble body. It is apt to carry partisan antagonisms to
extremes and wrangle over anything that comes up, with accusations and
recriminations, and at rare intervals an exchange of blows. Repeatedly I
have seen the Sergeant-at-Arms lift his mace and march down one aisle
and up another, to compose disturbances which seemed to threaten a
sequel of riot, while the Speaker pounded his desk in an effort to
overcome the clamor of several members trying to talk at once. By laxity
of discipline and force of custom, there is a degree of freedom here, in
even a peaceful discussion, unknown to the Senate. Members will bring,
to exemplify their statements in a tariff debate, samples of
merchandise--a suit of clothes, a basket of fruit, a jar of sweetmeats,
perhaps. One day a debater, discussing olive oil, accidentally dropped
a bottle of it on the floor, and several of his colleagues lost their
footing in crossing the scene of the disaster. Another, who had a
pocketful of matches designed for illustrative purposes, suddenly found
his clothes ablaze and made a fiery bolt for a water-tank. Still
another, inflamed by his own eloquence in trying to show how Congress
ought to wring the life out of an odious monopoly, impetuously laid
hands upon a small and inoffensive fellow member who happened to sit
near and shook him till his teeth rattled, amid roars of delight from
every one except the victim.
Usually, the Senate is as staid as the House is uproarious. All routine
business is transacted there “by unanimous consent”; it is only when
some really important issue arises that the Senators quarrel publicly.
When a serious debate is on, there is no commotion: every Senator who
wishes to speak sends his name to the presiding officer, or rises during
a lull and announces his purpose of addressing the Senate on a specified
day. The rest of the Senators respect his privilege, and, if he is a man
of consequence, a goodly proportion of them will be in their seats to
hear him. If a Senator is absent from the chamber when a matter arises
which might concern him, some one is apt to suggest deferring its
consideration till he can be present. It is the same way with
appointments to office which require confirmation by the Senate: a
Senator objecting to a candidate nominated from his State can count upon
abundant support from his fellow Senators, every one of whom realizes
that it may be his turn next to need support in a similar contingency.
This is what is called “Senatorial courtesy.” So well is it understood
that no unfair advantage will be taken of any one’s absence, that the
attendance in the chamber sometimes becomes very thin. An instance is
often cited when the Vice-president, discovering only one person on the
floor at the beginning of a day’s session, rapped with his gavel and
solemnly announced: “The Senator from Massachusetts will be in order!”
The strong contrast between the two chambers has existed ever since the
creation of Congress. This is not wonderful when we reflect that the
Senate was for a long time made up of men chosen by the State
legislatures from a social class well removed from the masses of the
people, and that they held office for a six-year term, thus lording it
over the members of the House of Representatives, who, besides being
drawn directly from the rank and file of the body politic, had to
struggle for reëlection every two years. In the early days, the Senators
were noted for their rich attire and their great gravity of manner;
whereas most of the Representatives persisted, while sitting in the
House during the debates, in wearing their big cocked hats set “fore and
aft” on their heads. Whether the Senate sat covered or bareheaded for
the first few years of its existence, we have only indirect evidence, as
it then kept its doors closed against everybody, even members of the
House. Little by little a more liberal spirit asserted itself, until the
doors were opened to the public for a certain part of every morning,
with the proviso that they should be closed whenever the subjects of
discussion seemed to require secrecy. By common consent, these subjects
were limited to certain classes of business proposed by the President,
like the ratification of treaties and the confirmation of appointments
to office. Such matters remain confidential to this day, and the Senate
holds itself ready to exclude spectators and go into secret session at
any moment, on the request of a single Senator.
As a secret session is always supposed to be for the purpose of
discussing a Presidential communication, the fiction is embalmed in the
form of a motion “that the Senate proceed to the consideration of
executive business.” This is the signal for the doorkeepers to evict the
occupants of the galleries and shut the doors leading into the
corridors; but sometimes the real reason for the request is widely
removed from its pretext. I have known it to be offered for the purpose
of cutting short the exhibition which a tipsy Senator was making of
himself; or to prevent a tedious airing of grievances by a Senator who
had quarreled with the President over the dispensation of patronage in
his State; or to silence a Senator who, objecting to the negotiation of
a certain treaty, kept referring to it in open debate while it was still
pending under the seal of confidence. In this last instance, the
offending Senator was so obstinate of purpose that the doors had to be
closed and reopened several times in a single day.
On the face of things, there is no reason why the President should not
attend any session of the Senate at which business of his originating is
under debate. No President since the first, however, has made the
experiment. Washington attended three secret sessions, but was so
angered by the Senate’s referring to a committee sundry questions which
he insisted should be settled on the spot, that he quitted the chamber,
emphatically vowing that he would waste no more time on such trifling.
The Senators excused their conduct by saying that they were embarrassed
in talking about the President and his motives while he was sitting
there.
The custom of wearing their hats while transacting business was
continued by the Representatives for fifty years or more. Even the
Speaker, as long as he sat in his chair, would keep his hat on, though
he was accustomed to remove it when he stood to address the House. The
Senators, whatever may have been their practice during the years of
their seclusion, distinguished themselves from the Representatives
immediately thereafter by sitting with bared heads. They also avoided
the habit, common in the House, of putting their feet up on the nearest
elevated object--usually a desk-lid--and lolling on their spines.
English visitors, though accustomed to the wearing of hats in their own
House of Commons, nevertheless found a text for criticism in the way the
American Representatives did it; and they all had something severe to
say of the prevalence of tobacco-chewing in the House, with its
accompaniment of spitting, as Mrs. Trollope put it, “to an excess that
decency forbids me to describe.” Less offensive to the taste of our
visitors from abroad was the indulgence in snuff-taking, which was so
general that boxes or jars were set up in convenient places inside of
both halls, and it was made the duty of certain employees to keep these
always filled with a fine brand of snuff. Any of the most eloquent
orators in Congress was liable to stop at regular intervals in a speech
to help himself to a large pinch, bury his face in a bandanna
handkerchief, and have it out with nature. A few of the lawmakers,
indeed, cultivated snuff-taking as a fine art, and were proud of their
reputations for dexterity in it. Henry Clay was one of the most skilful.
While we are on the subject of indulgences, we must not overlook a drink
called switchel, which was very popular, being compounded of rum,
ginger, molasses, and water. Every member was allowed then, as now, in
addition to his salary and traveling expenses, a fixed supply of
“stationery”; and this term, which was elastic enough to include
everything from pens and paper to jack-knives and razors, was stretched
to cover the delectable switchel under the thin disguise of “sirup.” In
later years, when a wave of teetotalism had swept over Washington, and
the open sale of alcoholic drinks in the restaurants of the Capitol was
under a temporary ban, any member who wished a drink of whisky ordered
it as “cold tea,” and it was served to him in a china cup. This
stratagem fell into marked discredit when one of the most respectable
and abstemious members of the House, who had never tasted intoxicating
liquor of any sort, ordered cold tea in entire good faith to clear his
throat in the midst of a speech, and became maudlin before he was aware
that anything was amiss.
Besides sprawling with their feet higher than their heads, and otherwise
airing their contempt for conventional etiquette, many of the old-time
Representatives felt free to read newspapers while debates were going on
around them, indifferent to their disturbance of both orators and
audience. The first pointed rebuke of this practice was administered by
James K. Polk when Speaker of the House. He noticed one morning that
substantially every Representative had a newspaper in hand when the
gavel fell for beginning the day’s session. The journal was read, but
nobody paid any attention to it, and then the Speaker made his usual
announcement that the House was ready for business. Still everybody
remained buried in the morning’s news. After another vain attempt to set
the machinery in motion, Mr. Polk quietly drew a newspaper from his own
pocket, seated himself with his back toward the House, spread the sheet
open before him, and ostentatiously immersed himself in its printed
contents. One by one the Representatives finished their reading, and
perhaps a quarter of an hour passed before there came from all sides an
irregular volley of calls: “Mr. Speaker!” “Mr. Speaker!” Mr. Polk
ignored them till one of the baffled members moved that the House
proceed to the election of a presiding officer, to take the place of the
Speaker, who appeared to be absent. This brought Mr. Polk to his feet
with the remark that he not only was present, but had notified the House
that it was ready for business and had received no response. The House
took the joke in good part and showed by its conduct thereafter that it
was not above profiting by the Speaker’s reproof.
Although women were admitted as spectators to the sessions of both
chambers on the same terms as men, there was for many years an
undercurrent of feeling against their encroachments. There was limited
room in either hall for their accommodation behind the colonnade. In
this space--the original “lobby”--there was an open fireplace at each
end, and it soon became a common complaint among the Senators that the
feminine guests drew the sofas up in front of the fire and thus
effectually shut off the warmth from every one else. Aaron Burr, while
Vice-president, was the first person in authority to take cognizance of
this indictment. He notified the visiting women that after a certain
date they must cease coming into the lobby and find seats in the
gallery. They were appropriately indignant and declared an almost
unanimous boycott against the Senate. Vice-president Clinton was of a
different temper from his predecessor and let them all come back again.
By degrees, however, as the privileges of the floor became more and more
restricted in both chambers, the women were given a special gallery for
themselves.
From the time they began coming to Congress in any multitude, the fair
visitors have made their presence felt. In the House one day John
Randolph drew attention to them by halting a debate to point a long,
skinny finger in their direction and snarl out: “Mr. Speaker, what,
pray, are all these women doing here, so out of place in this arena?
Sir, they had much better be at home attending to their knitting!” In
spite of that, they continued to come and to attract attention, till the
number of members who habitually quitted their seats to repair to the
gallery and pay their devoirs to their lady friends threatened to play
havoc with the roll-calls. This abuse did not last long, and nowadays
the visit of a member of either house to the gallery is an incident.
So far from objecting to spectators, both House and Senate now offer
distinct encouragement to the public to come and hear the debates. To
this end, each chamber has a deep gallery completely surrounding it,
with cross partitions at intervals. One section is reserved for the
President and Cabinet and their families; another for the members of the
diplomatic circle; a third for the members of the press, and so forth.
Control of each press gallery is nominally retained by the chamber
concerned, but actually is left in the hands of a committee of newspaper
men, who enforce an exemplary discipline, so that a writer guilty of
misconduct would be excluded thenceforward from his privileges. On the
other hand, the newspaper men have always stood firmly for their right
to discuss the members and measures of Congress with all the freedom
consonant with truth. It has required a long and sometimes dramatic
struggle to bring about the present harmonious mutual understanding
between Congress and the press as to the legitimate preserves of each
body upon which the other must not trespass.
Some of the battles leading to this result are entertaining to recall.
In the later forties, while members of the press were still permitted to
do their work at desks on the floor of the House, a correspondent of the
_New York Tribune_ named Robinson published an article about a certain
Representative named Sawyer, whose unappetizing personal habits he
thought it would be wise to break up. Among other things he described
the way Sawyer ate his luncheon: “Every day at two o’clock he feeds.
About that hour he is seen leaving his seat and taking a position in the
window back of the Speaker’s chair to the left. He unfolds a greasy
paper, in which is contained a chunk of bread and sausage, or some other
unctuous substance. He disposes of them rapidly, wipes his hands with
the greasy paper for a napkin, and throws it out of the window. What
little grease is left on his hands, he wipes on his almost bald head.”
There was more to the same effect, but this will suffice. When the paper
containing the article reached Washington, there was much laughing
behind hands in Congress; but, though most of the members rejoiced that
somebody should have told the truth for the dignity of the House, few
had the courage to come out boldly and say that the satire was deserved.
One of Sawyer’s colleagues retaliated with a resolution that all writers
for the _Tribune_ be excluded thenceforward from the floor; after a
brief debate it was adopted, and the offending correspondent was obliged
to go up into the gallery and sit among the women. But his pursuers were
not satisfied with this measure of revenge; for, reviving a
half-forgotten rule that men were to be admitted to the gallery only
when accompanied by women, and then must be passed in by a member of the
House, they sent a doorkeeper to eject him even from his temporary
refuge. At once several ladies volunteered to accompany him for his
visits, and among the Congressmen who climbed the stairs from day to day
to pass him in was one not less distinguished than John Quincy Adams.
Nor
[Illustration: _Where Dolly Madison Gave Her Farewell Ball_]
was this the end. For the correspondent went home, ran for Congress and
was elected, while the wrathful Representative dropped into obscurity
under the nickname, which he was never able to shake off, of “Sausage
Sawyer.”
Many newspaper publications have been made subjects of special
investigation by committees of Congress, but in no instance has a threat
of expulsion from the gallery or of prosecution in the courts produced
any practical results; and the locking up of recusant committee
witnesses has become a mere mockery. The most notable case on record was
that of Hallet Kilbourn, a former journalist who had become a real
estate broker and a leading participant in a local land syndicate which
the House undertook to investigate. Kilbourn was commanded to produce
certain account-books, as well as the names and addresses of sundry
persons who, not being members of Congress, he insisted were outside the
jurisdiction of that body. For his refusal to furnish the information
demanded he was thrown into jail and kept there nearly six weeks. From
the first, he had declared that he had no objection to opening his
accounts to the whole world or to publishing the data desired, as all
the transactions covered by the inquiry had been honorable; and this
assertion he proved later by voluntarily printing everything. But he
was resolved to make a legal test of the right of Congress to arrogate
to itself the arbitrary powers of a court of justice, and he got a good
deal of enjoyment out of the experience.
For the whole period of his imprisonment he lived like a prince at the
expense of the contingent fund of the House; drove about the city at
will in a carriage, merely accompanied by a deputy sergeant-at-arms; and
entertained his friends at dinner within the jail walls. Of course, the
newspapers exploited the whole episode gladly, and when he had held his
prosecutors up to popular ridicule long enough, he sued out a writ of
habeas corpus and was released. Then he brought a suit for damages
against the Sergeant-at-Arms for false imprisonment and won it on appeal
after appeal, till the Supreme Court of the United States handed down a
sweeping decision that “there is not found in the Constitution any
general power vested in either house to punish for contempt.” In spite
of the efforts of all the judges in the lower courts to cut down the
damages granted by their juries, Congress was finally obliged to pay
Kilbourn twenty thousand dollars, or about five hundred dollars a day
for his forty days’ incarceration. It took him nine years to carry his
case through all its stages.
Both chambers open their daily sessions with prayer. Clergymen of
nearly all denominations have served as Chaplains, including Father
Pise, a very eloquent Catholic priest who was a close friend of Henry
Clay and was invited at his instance to lead the devotions of the
Senate. As a rule, the prayers are extemporaneous, and it seems almost
inevitable that, in periods of political upheaval, some color of
partisanship should creep into them. Yet such slips have been very rare
indeed. The most startling was made by the late Doctor Byron Sunderland,
who was Chaplain of the Senate in 1862. He was the foremost Presbyterian
minister in Washington and a strong anti-slavery advocate. One day
Senator Saulsbury of Delaware, who was an accomplished biblical scholar,
made a speech reviewing the references in the Hebrew scriptures to human
servitude, as proof that slavery was of divine origin. Doctor
Sunderland, having left the hall, did not hear the speech made, but was
told about it when he arrived at the Capitol the next morning. He was
nettled by the news, and, before he was fairly conscious of it, he
caught himself saying something like this in his opening prayer: “Oh,
Lord God of Nations, teach this Senate and all the people of this
country that, if slavery is of divine institution, so is hell itself,
and by Thy grace help us to abolish the one and escape the other!” These
few words caused a great sensation, and later in the day Mr. Saulsbury
vented his indignation in a resolution to expel the offending clergyman
from the chaplaincy; but some quick-witted Senator on the opposite side
cut off debate by moving to adjourn, and the matter died there.
Every day’s proceedings of Congress are published in a special journal
called the _Record_; but it must not be too lightly assumed that every
speech reported has been made in Congress. One of the rules of the House
of Representatives permits a member, with the consent of the House, to
be credited with having made remarks which, as a matter of fact, he has
only reduced to writing and handed to the Clerk. That is what is meant
by the “leave to print” privilege. Into the authorship of these
speeches, or even of some that are delivered, it is not wise to probe
too far. There are trained writers in Washington who earn a livelihood
by digging out statistics and other data and composing addresses on
various subjects for orators who are willing to pay for them, and
Congressmen are among their customers. Once in a while something happens
which casts a temporary shadow over this traffic. Several years ago, for
example, two Representatives from Ohio were credited in the _Record_
with the same speech. Inquiry developed the fact that it had been
offered to one of them, who had refused either to pay the price
demanded for it or to give it back; so the author had sold a duplicate
copy to the other. But worse yet was the plight of two members who
delivered almost identical eulogies on a dead fellow member, having by
accident copied their material from the same ancient volume of “Rules
and Models for Public Speaking.”
I have alluded to disorders which occasionally mar the course of
legislation, when members hurl ugly names at each other or even exchange
blows. While some such affrays have carried their high tension to the
end and sent the combatants to the dueling field to settle accounts,
others have taken a comical turn which decidedly relaxed the strain.
Perhaps the most picturesque incident of this kind was the historic
Keitt-Grow contest in February, 1858. The House had been engaged all
night in a wrangle over an acute phase of the slavery question, and two
o’clock in the morning found both the Northern and the Southern members
with their nerves on edge. Mr. Keitt of South Carolina, objecting to
something said by Mr. Grow of Pennsylvania, struck at him, but Grow
parried the blow, and a fellow member who sprang to his assistance
knocked Keitt down. From all sides came reinforcements, and in a few
minutes what started as a personal encounter of minor importance
developed into a general free fight.
Potter of Wisconsin, a man of athletic build, whirled his fists right
and left, doing tremendous execution. Owen Lovejoy, seeing Lamar of
Mississippi striding toward a confused group, ran at him with arms
extended, resolved on pushing him back, while Lamar as vigorously
resisted the obstruction. Covode of Pennsylvania, fearing lest his
friend Grow might be overpowered by hostile numbers, picked up a big
stoneware spittoon and hurried forward, holding his improvised
projectile poised to hurl at the head where it would do most good; but
having no immediate need to use it, he set it on top of a convenient
desk. Everybody was too excited to pay any attention to the loud
pounding of the Speaker’s gavel, or to the advance of the
Sergeant-at-Arms with his mace held aloft. Even the unemotional John
Sherman and his gray-haired Quaker colleague Mott could not keep out of
the fray entirely.
But Elihu Washburne of Illinois and his brother Cadwallader of Wisconsin
proved by all odds the heroes of the occasion. They were of modest
stature, but sturdy and full of energy. Elihu tackled Craig of North
Carolina, who was tall and had long arms, which he swung about him with
a flail-like motion; and it would have gone hard with the smaller man
had he not suddenly lowered his head and used it as a battering-ram,
aiming at the unprotected waist-line of his antagonist and doubling him
up with one irresistible rush. Just then Cadwallader, seeing Barksdale
of Mississippi about to strike Elihu, ran toward him; but being unable
to penetrate the crowd, he leaped forward and reached over the heads of
the intervening men to seize the Mississippian by the hair. Here came
the culmination; for Barksdale’s ambrosial locks, which were only a
lifelike wig worn to cover a pate as smooth as a soap-bubble, came off
in his assailant’s hand. The astonishment of the one man and the
consternation of the other were too much for the fighters, who, in spite
of themselves, united in wild peals of merriment; and their hilarity was
in no wise dampened when Barksdale, snatching at his wig, restored it to
his head hind side before, or when Covode, returning to his seat and
missing his spittoon, marched solemnly down the aisle and recovered it
from its temporary perch.
This scene occurred in the old Hall of Representatives. The most
dramatic scene ever witnessed in the present hall was one which attended
the opening of the Fifty-first Congress, when the Republicans, who had
only an infinitesimal majority, had organized the House with Thomas B.
Reed as Speaker. Reed, who was a large, blond man with a Shakespearian
head and a high-pitched drawl, signalized his entrance upon his new
duties by announcing his purpose to preside over a lawmaking rather than
a do-nothing body. For several successive Congresses the House had found
itself crippled in its attempts to transact business by the dilatory
tactics of whichever party happened to be in the minority. Day after
day, even in a congested season, would be wasted in roll-calls
necessitated by some one’s raising the point of “no quorum,” although
everybody knew that a quorum was present, and that its apparent absence
was deliberately caused by the refusal of members of the opposition to
answer to their names. Reed had bent his mind to breaking up this
practice.
Early in his Speakership a motion to take up a contested election case
was put to vote, and a roll-call demanded as usual by the minority. As
the House was then constituted, one hundred and sixty-six members were
necessary to a quorum, and four Republicans were unavoidably absent.
Following the old tactics, nearly all the Democrats abstained from
voting; but, as the call proceeded, Reed was observed making notes on a
sheet of paper which lay on his table. At the close, he rose and
announced the vote: yeas 162, nays 3, not voting 163. Mr. Crisp of
Georgia at once raised the point of no quorum. Reed ignored it, and,
lifting his memorandum, began, in measured tones and with no trace of
excitement or weakness:
“The Chair directs the Clerk to record the following names of members
present and refusing to vote--”
And then Bedlam broke loose. The Republicans applauded, and howls and
yells arose from the Democratic side. Above the din could be heard the
voice of Crisp: “I appeal from the decision of the Chair!” But the
Speaker, not having finished his statement, kept right on, oblivious of
the turmoil:
“Mr. Blanchard, Mr. Bland, Mr. Blount, Mr. Breckinridge of Arkansas, Mr.
Breckinridge of Kentucky--”
The Democrats generally had seemed stunned by the boldness of this move;
but the Kentucky Breckinridge, at the mention of his name, rushed down
the aisle, brandishing his fist and shaking his head so that its
straight white hair stood out from it. His face was aflame with anger,
and his voice quite beyond his control, as he shrieked: “I deny the
power of the Speaker--this is revolutionary!” The other Democrats,
inspired by his example and recovering from their stupefaction, poured
into the center aisle. They bore down in a mass upon the Speaker’s dais,
gesticulating wildly and all shouting at once, so that nothing could be
understood from the babel of voices save their desire to express their
scorn for the Speaker and their defiance of his authority. The
Republicans sat quiet, making no demonstration, but obviously prepared
to rush in if the trouble took on a more violent form. The Speaker stood
apparently unruffled, not even changing color, and only those who were
near enough to see every line in his face were aware of that slight
twitching of the muscles of his mouth which always indicated that his
outward composure was not due to insensibility.
So furious was the clamor that he was compelled to desist from his
reading for a moment, while he pounded with his gavel to command order
on the floor. Then, as the remonstrants fell back a little, his nasal
tone was heard again, still reciting that momentous list:
“Mr. Brookshire, Mr. Bullock, Mr. Bynum, Mr. Carlisle--”
And so on down the roll, one member after another jumping up when he
heard his name called, but subsiding as the Speaker went imperturbably
ahead, much as might a schoolmaster with a roomful of refractory pupils.
Presently came the opportunity he had been waiting for. Mr. McCreary of
Kentucky, a very dignified, decorous-mannered gentleman on ordinary
occasions, had shown by his change of countenance and color that he was
repressing his emotions with difficulty; and, resolved not to be ridden
over ruthlessly as the rest had been, he had risen in his place and
stood there, holding before him an open book and waiting to hear his
name. The instant it was read out, he raised his disengaged hand and
shouted: “Mr. Speaker!”
To every one’s astonishment, the Speaker paused, turning a look of
inquiry toward the interrupter, while the House held its breath.
“I deny,” cried Mr. McCreary, in a voice which, in spite of his endeavor
to be calm, was trembling with agitation, “your right to count me as
present; and I desire to cite some parliamentary law in support of my
point!”
Reed, wearing an air of entire seriousness, answered with his familiar
drawl:
“The Chair is making a statement of fact that the gentleman is
present.” Then, with a significant emphasis on each word:
“Does--the--gentleman--deny--it?”
The silence which had settled momentarily upon the chamber continued for
a few seconds more, to be succeeded by an outburst of laughter which
fairly shook the ceiling. The Republican side furnished most of it at
first, but those Democrats who possessed a keen sense of humor soon gave
way also. The Speaker, still grave as a statue, maintained the expectant
attitude of one awaiting the reply to a question. McCreary held his
ground for a few minutes, striving to make himself heard in reading a
passage from his book, while the gavel beat a tattoo on the desk as if
the Speaker were trying to aid him by restoring order; but he was
talking against a torrent, and had to realize his defeat and resume his
seat.
When the last name on the written list had been read, the Speaker handed
the sheet to the Clerk for incorporation in the minutes, and, as coolly
as if nothing had happened, proceeded to set forth briefly the
precedents covering the case, including one ruling made by a very
distinguished Democrat who was at that hour the most conspicuous
candidate of his party for the Presidency.
The fight was resumed the next day and continued to rage all through the
session, the foes of the Speaker constantly devising new stratagems to
outwit him, but in vain. Sometimes there were funny little developments,
as when, in a precipitate flight of the Democrats from the hall to
escape being counted, Mr. O’Ferrall of Virginia inadvertently left his
hat on his desk, and the Speaker jocosely threatened to count
[Illustration: Lee Mansion at Arlington]
that, on the theory that its habitual wearer was constructively present;
or when “Buck” Kilgore, a giant Democrat from Texas, refused to stay in
the hall after the Speaker had ordered the doors fastened, and kicked
one of them open with his Number 14 boot. Sometimes a tragic threat
would be uttered by a group of hot-headed enemies, and the galleries
would be thronged for several days with spectators expecting to see Reed
dragged out of the chair by force and arms. But, though every day
witnessed its parliamentary struggle, the bad blood aroused was never
actually spilled. What did happen was that, at the close of the
Congress, when it is customary for the opposition party to move a vote
of thanks to the Speaker, Reed went without the compliment. Something
far more flattering than thanks was in store for him, however; for in
the Fifty-third Congress, the House, which was then under Democratic
control, by a vote of nearly five to one adopted his quorum-counting
rule with only a technical modification. Since that day it has never
found itself in a condition of legislative paralysis.
The communications in which the President, as required by the
Constitution, gives to Congress from time to time “information of the
state of the Union,” take the form of general and special messages. A
general message is sent at the beginning of every session and usually
reviews the relations of our Government with its citizens and with the
outside world. A special message is called forth by some particular
event or series of events requiring a union of counsels between the
legislative and executive branches of the Government.
The formalities attending the presentation of general messages have
differed at various stages of our national history. John Adams, for
example, brought his in person to the Capitol. A military and civic
procession escorted him from his house to the Senate chamber, where the
Senators and Representatives were assembled in joint session. He was
attired with more elegance than was his wont and was accompanied by the
members of his Cabinet, the United States Marshal acting as usher; the
Vice-president surrendered to him the chair of honor and took a seat at
his right while he read his address aloud. In those days, each house
appointed a committee to consider the address of the President and to
draft a reply to it; when the reply was ready, a committee waited upon
him to inquire at what time it would be agreeable for him to receive it,
and on the day appointed, the members called upon him in a body to
present it.
The message ceremonial was considerably shortened during the
administration of President Jefferson, who scandalized some of the
sticklers for propriety by reading his first address to Congress clad in
a plain blue coat with gilt buttons, blue breeches, woolen stockings,
and heavy shoes tied with leather strings. This democratic departure was
typical of the way a good many old customs died out. We find most of the
later Presidents, till the spring of 1913, rather studiously avoiding
the Capitol, meeting Congress seldom outside of the White House, and
confining their official communications to written messages presented in
duplicate at the doors of the two halls respectively by the hand of an
executive clerk. The response of each house, if any is deemed worth
while, now takes the form of the introduction of legislation on lines
suggested by the President. But the common practice is to cut a message
into parts, referring the passages which deal with one class of subjects
to one committee, and those which deal with another class to another
committee; and in most cases, unless an emergency arises to make further
consideration essential, little more is heard of them.
President Wilson has revived the custom of visiting Congress in its own
home and there delivering his addresses directly to the lawmakers in a
body, assembled for the occasion in the Hall of Representatives. This
is a much more effective mode of approaching Congress than sending a
written document by messenger, to be drawled through in a singsong voice
by tired clerks, simultaneously in both halls, to a gathering of only
half-interested auditors. It is also a more certain means of
concentrating public attention upon the work of the session. There is a
subtle something in the very personality of a President which appeals to
the popular imagination. As the one high officer of state elected by the
votes of all the people, he stands in their minds as a conservator and
champion of their broadest ideals, as contrasted with the narrower
sectional interests represented by the members of Congress. When,
therefore, he takes his position face to face with the men who are to
frame whatever legislation grows out of his recommendations, the whole
country instinctively draws near and listens.
It is hard to guess what might happen should it fall to the lot of
President Wilson to appear before Congress in person with such a
trumpet-call as was sounded in President Harrison’s message on the
maltreatment of our sailors in Chile, or President Cleveland’s on the
encroachments of England in Venezuela, or President McKinley’s on the
failure of his peaceful efforts for freeing Cuba. If the mere reading of
these formal messages was so impressive as to paint a vivid picture of
the attendant scenes on the memory of all who witnessed them, what an
extra touch of the dramatic would have been added had the chief
executive of the nation appeared at the Capitol to tell his story
himself!