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 lifted, he snatched a bowie knife from
his pocket and dashed for the man who had insulted him.
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