When I was elected, I do not think there was a single lighthouse, or fog signal, or foghorn, on the waters of Puget Sound, and I secured the establishment of quite a number of them.
I forced the loosening of the grasp of the Northern Pacific Railroad Company on large quantities of the public land, and I did much to secure the passage of the law returning to purchasers one-half of the double-minimum price ($2.50 per acre) paid by them, which was exacted on the ground that the land so purchased was double in value by virtue of its proximity to a railroad line. This is a brief and imperfect synopsis of some of the results of my efforts as Delegate.
A Delegate has not even the unit of political power—a vote on any measure; he can therefore form no combination to further friendly legislation in the interest of his Territory. The Delegates from the different Territories, however, were regarded as quite an influential body of men, and were usually able, by scattering through the House, by use of personal persuasion, by attendance before committees and receiving favorable reports, to get a part, at least, of what they desired for their Territories.
While a member of the House of Representatives I was much interested in the study of its members and its mode of operation. The popular opinion is that it is a calm and deliberative body. This is true as a general rule; but there are times, and they are not infrequent, when the House is anything else than a sedate and deliberative body of men.
General Benjamin F. Butler had a seat back of me, and frequently, when he desired to speak, asked me to change seats with him for a time—my seat being nearer to the Speaker of the House and a fine place wherein to stand and from which to be distinctly heard. On one occasion it was announced that Butler would deliver a speech on the financial question. I offered him my seat for the purpose. The House was full. Butler was cross-eyed and near-sighted. He commenced the delivery of his speech by reading from a manuscript. Every eye was turned towards him. He always commanded the attention of the House when he spoke. In the delivery of his speech he had to keep his manuscript close to his face and to move it to the right and to the left on account of his being cross-eyed. He did not often speak from manuscript. This was his first attempt to do so at that Congress. The spectacle was so novel that many members began to laugh and to interrupt him by asking him questions. He threw the manuscript on the desk, stepped out into a space nearly in front of the Speaker, and gave the points of his speech without the aid of his manuscript. He was frequently interrupted, especially by the Democrats; and he suggested to me the idea of a lion at bay, shaking off and striking at his opponents with caustic wit and scathing repartee. On another occasion, a gentleman from Maryland, a large and portly man, who was Chairman, I think, of the Committee of Foreign Affairs, arose to introduce and briefly to explain the provisions of a bill reported from his Committee. This gentleman was quite deaf, and like all deaf persons spoke in a very low tone of voice; in fact, he could not be heard six feet away from him; but he had, no doubt adopted Demosthenes' idea that gestures were the levers of eloquence; and his arms would go up and down and to the right and to the left, and his eyes sometimes rolled upward and then downward to the floor. Someone cried out: "Is this a pantomime performance, or a public speech?" Then others gathered around him, and all kinds of remarks were made concerning the performance. The Speaker finally compelled the Members to take their seats; whereupon the Member ceased his motions, and probably his speech, and resumed his seat. This gentleman came to Congress with a great reputation as an orator. Probably he had been such in former years, but his deafness had destroyed his powers in that regard.
I was in the House at the time that James G. Blaine, then a prominent candidate for the Republican nomination for President, annihilated J. Proctor Knott, who was Chairman of the Committee on the Judiciary. A report had been made by that Committee on a matter referred to it; it seriously reflected on Blaine's honor and integrity as a man and as a member of the House of Representatives. It seems to have been the intent of the majority of the Committee who joined in the report, and who were all Democrats, not to bring up the report for hearing, but to let it stand as damaging evidence against Mr. Blaine, in order to prevent his nomination, or to defeat his election, if nominated. Blaine and his friends determined to expose its animus and falsity on the floor of the House, so that the refutation would go with the charge. To make this vindication, however, it was necessary for Blaine to obtain the floor; this would be opposed and was opposed. In the parliamentary conflict for the floor which ensued, Blaine's superior knowledge and tact succeeded, and he was recognized by the Speaker. I never saw a more forlorn look of disappointment, and of sullen resignation, than that manifested in the countenances of many of his opponents, when the Speaker announced that the gentleman from Maine was entitled to the floor. Blaine was pale, and all aflame with indignation. His voice, although at first a little tremulous, soon became clear and ringing. His sentences were compact and parliamentary. He accused that great Committee of darkening its former reputation by making a report for political purposes. He further accused them of the deliberate suppression of evidence that completely exonerated him, he drew from his pocket a certified copy of such suppressed evidence, read it to the House, and waved it in triumph amid the uproarious applause of his Republican colleagues, and of many Democrats. He spoke in this vein for about thirty minutes. When he closed, his friends were joyous, and his enemies dismayed. Among the first, personally to congratulate him, was Ben Hill of Georgia, a distinguished member of the then extinct Confederate Congress.
A ludicrous scene occurred in the House, when the bill making a large appropriation for the re-building of the various edifices formerly constituting William and Mary's College, in the State of Virginia, came up for consideration. These buildings were alternately in the possession of the Union and Confederate forces during the war, and were destroyed by fire while the Union forces were in possession of the ground upon which they stood. Most of the members of the Democratic party favored this bill. A few opposed it. The Republican members generally opposed the appropriation, but there were some who favored it. It was understood that when the bill came up for final passage, but one speech would be made in its favor, and that was to be made by Mr. Loring, of Massachusetts, a Republican. Mr. Loring had a national reputation for finished and eloquent orations. When the time arrived the House and galleries were full. Mr. Loring arose and partly read from a manuscript his great oration. He stated in a clear and comprehensive manner what the laws of war formerly were, and how they had been modified by the generous principles of Christianity and of civilization. He stated that now as recognized by every Christian and civilized nation, churches, hospitals, institutions of learning and other eleemosynary institutions were exempt from the ravages of war. He spoke in eloquent terms of the sacred walls within which poets, philosophers, statesmen, lawyers, great divines and warriors, if not born, received their inspiration and were qualified for their grand missions. He was listened to, throughout, with breathless attention. When he closed, at the expiration of a little over an hour, he was greatly applauded. I thought it the finest oration I had ever had the pleasure of hearing. The Republicans were anxious to break the magnetic spell of his oratory, and to get a little time for the sober second thought, of the members to assert itself. Conger, of Michigan, had the ability to crowd more sarcasm, wit and scathing repartee into the same length of time than any other member of the House, and he was chosen by the Republicans to break the magnetic spell of Loring's great speech. He arose, and after complimenting the honorable gentleman from Massachusetts on his great effort, stated that some of the buildings constituting the College, while in the possession of the Rebel forces, were used as stables for their horses, that their floors were covered with excrement of such animals, that other buildings were used as hospitals for the sick and wounded, and that their walls were besmeared with blood and filth; and he sneeringly remarked, that these were the sacred walls that so inspired the eloquence of the honorable gentleman from Massachusetts. After indulging in other bitter declarations of the same character, he ceased—having spoken for about thirty minutes. The Virginia members were very much excited. One of their number, by the name of Good, arose to reply to Conger. Good possessed the ability to open his mouth and, without seeming effort or preparation, to pour forth a volume of sweetened wind or a volume of scathing philippics. He denounced the honorable gentleman from Michigan for preaching a gospel of hate and vengeance, which had heretofore well-nigh wrecked this glorious Government, which if persisted in, would keep open the wounds and sores that under a more liberal and generous spirit were fast healing. He indulged in more of this kind of denunciation, and finally, in a supreme effort of indignation, consigned the honorable gentleman from Michigan to ruined towers and castles and crumbling walls, where he could be fanned by the damp and dismal wings of bats, and listen to the hooting of owls, forever. Conger, who had not resumed his seat, but stood calmly gazing at the honorable gentleman from Virginia, exclaimed, with a piercing and ringing voice, "I hear them—even now." This remark was received with roars of laughter, joined in by Democrats as well as Republicans. Mr. Good tried to proceed; but when he did so, someone would exclaim, "The owls are hooting again," and poor Good resumed his seat.
I have noticed that some pungent remark, or sarcastic repartee is often more effective than a set speech. All remember Butler's reply to "Sunset" Cox, when the former was frequently interrupting him. With a motion of his hand over his bald head, he exclaimed to Cox: "Shoo, Fly! don't bother me." It was taken from one of the popular songs of the day. It hurt Cox's prestige and lessened to some extent his power. Cox was physically a small man, and the application carried with it an expression of contempt. Holman, of Indiana, on account of his objections to all bills making appropriations of money, got the name of being "the watchdog of the Treasury." Towards the end of his term an amendment was offered in which a near relative was much interested. The familiar "I object" was not heard, and the amendment went through with his support; whereupon a member sitting near exclaimed:
"'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home."
In a more recent case, a gentleman from Indiana, in his indignation against a gentleman from Illinois, called the Illinois member "an ass." This was unparliamentary language, and the Indiana gentleman had to apologize and to withdraw the remark. The gentleman from Illinois arose and said he did not know what was the matter with him that he should always so excite the ire of the gentleman from Indiana; the gentleman from Indiana replied: "If you will inquire of some veterinary surgeon, he can probably tell what is the matter with you." This was perfectly parliamentary and a complete exterminator.