nius entitled 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 associates 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 uncushioned, its desks
dingy and slashed with pocket knives. Its members sat with their heels
in the air and their bodies sprawled in every conceivable attitude of
ugly indifference.

The heart and brains of the South were on the field of battle--her
noblest 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 passed
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:

"Damned old scoundrel--"

The Judge's gray head suddenly