“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
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.