The Capital had been full of exciting rumors for a fortnight, on the subject of the admission or the rejection of the Southern Representatives and Senators; and, finally, the action of the House Union Caucus had been announced; but, still the Southern aspirants hoped against hope.

At last came the decisive day. Floor and galleries, lobbies, reception-rooms, passage-ways, and all manner of approaches were crowded. The Diplomatic Gallery—so called, because diplomats are never in it—beamed with many new and many familiar faces. The Reporters’ Gallery—so called, because the members of the press are always crowded out of it on important occasions—was crammed by persons who, for the nonce, represented the Daily Old Dominion and the Idaho Flagstaff of Freedom’s Banner. Elsewhere the “beauty and fashion,” (as also the dirt and ill manners, for are we not democratic?) of the Capital looked down upon the busy floor, where members, pages, office-holders, office-seekers, and a miscellaneous crowd, swarmed over the new carpet and among the desks. Thus from ten to twelve.

Then the quick-motioned, sanguine little Clerk, with sharp rap, ends the hand-shaking, gossip, and laughter among the jovial members. A moment’s hasty hustling into seats; the throng of privileged spectators settles back into a dark ledge that walls in the outer row and blockades the aisles; the confused chatter subsides into a whispered murmur, and that, in turn, dies away.

“The hour having arrived for the assembling of the Thirty-ninth Congress, the Clerk of the last House of Representatives will proceed, in accordance with law, to call the roll of Representatives elect. From the State of Maine: John Lynch, Sidney Perham, James G. Blair,” etc.

Members quietly respond, the busy subordinates at the desk note responses, and everybody studies the appearance of the House. There are enough old faces to give it a familiar look, and yet there are strange changes. The Administration side has, in more senses than one, been filled too full. It has spilled over the main aisle till half the Democratic seats are occupied with its surplus, and the forlorn hope, that still flies the banner of the dead party, is crowded into the extreme left. James Brooks, however, smooth, plausible, and good-natured, sturdily keeps his seat by the main isle.^[63] Directly in front of him, two or three desks nearer to the vacant Speaker’s chair, (which neither is destined to fill,) sits a medium-sized, handsome man-of-the-world-looking gentleman, with English whiskers and moustache—Henry J. Raymond. “Grim old Thad.,” with wig browner and better curled than ever, occupies his old seat in the center of the Administration side; and directly behind him, greeting his friends with his left hand, which the Rebels left uncrippled, is General Schenck. Toward the extreme right is Governor Boutwell, in his old seat; and beside him is a small but closely-knit and muscular figure, with the same closely-cropped moustache and imperial as of old, the jaunty, barrel-organ-voiced General Banks, ex-Speaker, ex-Governor, etc. Next to him is a bearded, black son of Anak, with a great hole in his forehead, which looks as if a fragment of shell might once have been there—General Bidwell, one of the new members from California. Garfield is in his old place near the Clerk’s desk, and just across the main aisle from him, on what used to be the Democratic side, when there was a Democratic party, is that most nervous and irritable-seeming of all figures, the best-natured and crossest-looking man in the House, John A. Bingham.^[64] He has been absent from Congress for a term, has filled arduous posts and won high praises, and comes back, they say, to take high place on the committees.

Away across, in the midst of the Democratic desks, rises a head that might be called auburn, if the whiskers were not brick-dust red. It is a brother-in-law of the semi-Rebel Governor Seymour, of New York—one of the ablest Republicans of the House in old times, defeated two years ago, but sent back now, more radical than ever—Roscoe Conkling. If he had been a little better tempered the House, in the Thirty-seventh Congress, would have placed him within the first five in the lists of its most honored and trusted members. Near him, one naturally looks to the desk of the candidate opposed to President Johnson at the late election. Alas! a West Virginia Unionist fills the seat of George H. Pendleton. Back of him is the desk of the little joker of the Ohio delegation. But the little joker played his tricks too often, and has been dismissed to a second-rate claim agency business, while another West Virginian occupies his seat in the House.

In the front row of desks on the Union side is a clumsy figure of gigantic mould. The head matches the body; and in old times (when such men as A. Lincoln were his colleagues,) Long John Wentworth proved that there was a good deal in it. His immediate predecessor in the representation of Chicago, now sixth Auditor, is in the lobby.

So one’s eye ranges over familiar faces or picks out noted new ones, in this House which is to administer on the effects of the great Rebellion, while the Clerk vociferates the roll.

“Samuel McKee” has just been called, and the young Kentuckian has answered; “Wm. E Niblack,” continues the Clerk. He has skipped, on the printed roll, from Kentucky to Indiana, omitting Tennessee. From the very heart of the Massachusetts’ group rises the “black snake of the mountains,” the long, black-haired, black-faced, Indian-looking Horace Maynard. Every man knows and honors the voice, but it can not be heard now. He shakes his certificate of election from Parson Brownlow and begins to speak. The sharp rap of the Clerk’s gavel is followed by the curt sentence, “The Clerk declines to be interrupted during the roll call. William E. Niblack; Michael C. Kerr;” and so the call goes steadily on. At last the member from Nevada had answered; the territorial delegates had answered; Mr. Maynard rose again. But “The Clerk can not be interrupted while ascertaining whether a quorum is present.” Then, reading from the count of the assistants, “One hundred and seventy-five members, being a quorum, have answered to their names.” “Mr. Clerk,” once more from Horace Maynard. “The Clerk can not recognize as entitled to the floor any gentleman whose name is not on the roll.” And a buzz of approbation ran over the floor as the difficult point was thus passed.

Then, as if poor Mr. Maynard’s evil genius were directing things, who should get the floor but that readiest and most unremitting of talkers on a bad side, Mr. James Brooks. Mr. Morrill had moved to proceed to the election of Speaker, but had made the mistake which at once suggested how defective he was likely to prove in the leadership of the House, to which rumor already assigned him—had forgotten to call the previous question.

Brooks never misses such an opening. He proposed to amend the motion. He thought the roll ought first to be completed. He couldn’t understand why a State good enough to furnish the country a President wasn’t good enough to furnish the House members. If Mr. Maynard, of Tennessee, was to be kicked out by the party in power, he hoped they would proceed to perform the same operation on their Tennessee President. And then he told how, in the years of the war, he had heard the eloquent voice of this persecuted and rejected Tennesseean ringing on the banks of the Hudson, on the side of an imperiled country. But he forgot to add (as his hearers did not forget to remember,) how earnestly he had himself then taken—the other side! And, as if determined to stab poor Maynard as dangerously as possible, he even dragged up the Rebel Virginians, (“Sandie” Stuart at their head,) placed them by the loyal East Tennesseean’s side and claimed for them equal rights!

Long John Wentworth made his début by slowly rearing aloft his ponderous hulk, and calling, like a stentor, for order. The Clerk, handsomely and fairly, decided the speaker in order. Long John sank down, and Brooks improved his chance: “When the newly arrived gentleman from Illinois becomes a little more familiar with matters in the House, he will be a little slower in undertaking to find me out of order.” Presently he essayed a tilt against Thad. Stevens, but came out from that, as most men do, badly beaten, with House and galleries roaring at his discomfiture. Finally, Brooks was ready to close and sought to yield the floor to a Democrat; the Unionists were quick enough, this time, and objected. Points of order were raised, and old heads tried to entangle the Clerk; but he was clear as a bell, and his rulings were prompt, sharp, and decisive. The moment a Unionist fairly got the floor, the previous question was moved, and the contest was over. “If Maynard had spoken,” says Judge Warmouth, the delegate from the “Territory of Louisiana,” “I should have claimed the right to speak too.”

The stoop-shouldered, studious looking, thin-voiced Mr. Morrill, rises. “I nominate for Speaker, Schuyler Colfax, of Indiana.” Across the way a ponderous Democrat: “I nominate James Brooks, of New York;” and some person of bad taste titters, the laugh is infectious, and breaks out all over the floor, and runs around the galleries; while Brooks tries to look solemn for a moment, then makes the best of it, and laughs with the rest.

Four members of diverse parties take their seats beside the Clerk to count, and in a moment the call begins. “Sydenham E. Ancona.” “James Brooks” comes back for the first response, and the ill-mannered galleries laugh again. Then follows a running fire of “Schuyler Colfax,” “Schuyler Colfax,” “Colfax,” “Colfax,” with here and there a scattering shot for “James Brooks.” A moment’s figuring; the tellers rise; Mr. Morrill steps out in front of the Clerk’s desk. “The tellers agree in their count. One hundred and thirty-nine votes have been cast for Schuyler Colfax, and thirty-five for James Brooks.” Laughter again, while the Clerk repeats the figures of the result. Then, “Hon. Schuyler Colfax, one of the Representatives elect from the State of Indiana, having received a majority of all the votes cast, is duly elected Speaker of the House of Representatives of the Thirty-ninth Congress. Mr. Morrill, of Vermont, and Mr. Brooks, of New York, will act as a committee to conduct the Speaker elect to the chair; and Mr. Washburn, of Illinois, who has been for the longest time a member of the House, will administer the oath of office.” And with this the bright-faced little Pennsylvanian steps down.

The Speaker turns as he reaches the steps to the chair, shakes hands again with the committee, and leaving them, ascends to his place, unfolds his roll of manuscript and reads his graceful little speech.

While he reads, one may move around and see who make up the crowd standing about the outer row of desks and filling the space back to the cloak-rooms. Near the door the portly form and handsome face of Secretary McCulloch are noticeable. The other Cabinet officers seem not to be present. An amazing shock of black, curly hair, of formidable length, surmounting a boyish face, in which the queer incongruities are completed by a pair of spectacles, can not be overlooked. Its owner moves about with some constraint; naturally enough, for the Rebels shot away his leg at Port Hudson, where he was one of the commanding Generals, (Wisconsin sent him,) and the wooden one is not quite perfect. Another spectacled hero, with fiery whiskers, and an asserting nose with the blooded race-horse thinness of nostril, is conspicuous—General Carl Schurz, for the time chief Washington correspondent of the New York Tribune; and, as all men know, the most eloquent foreigner taking part in our American politics. Half a score of Senators have come over; the ubiquitous and good-looking Henry Wilson, prominent among them.

But the Speaker elect closes; a ripple of applause runs over the audience; the bluff, hearty, downright Washburne is taking his place, book in hand, in the little space in front of the Speaker:

“You, Schuyler Colfax, a member of the House of Representatives of the United States, do solemnly swear that you have never voluntarily borne arms against the United States since you have been a citizen thereof; that you have voluntarily given no aid, countenance, counsel, or encouragement to persons engaged in armed hostility thereto; that you have neither sought, nor accepted, nor attempted to exercise the functions of any office whatever, under any authority or pretended authority in hostility to the United States; that you have not yielded a voluntary support to any pretended Government, authority, power, or constitution within the United States, hostile or inimical thereto. And you do further swear that, to the best of your knowledge and ability, you will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that you will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that you take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that you will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which you are about to enter: So help you God.”

It is the oath which the laws require and which the higher obligations of public safety demand, and it is the oath, facing which most of the Southern States have sent none who could take it without perjury. Even the venerable Jacob Barker would make a pretty figure taking that oath—especially if he should happen to see General Butler watching him while he swore!

Next comes the swearing of the members. State by State, they gather in rows around the Clerk’s desk; and the new Speaker descending from his chair, and standing in the center of each group of uplifted hands, reads over again the oath.

This scene of unavoidable confusion over, an unkinder thing than even the oath is thrust before the Democrats. Wilson, of Iowa, looking as honest as ever, downright proposes to elect McPherson and the remaining House officers by resolution. The Democrats squirm and protest; but Wilson guards every point; insists on the previous question, and carries the matter through with a whirl. The Democrats stand up, on the call, and their corporal’s guard contrasts so ludicrously with the great crowd that rises from all parts of the hall when the Union side is called, that the galleries can’t refrain from another burst of laughter. “We want at least the poor privilege of complimenting our candidates for these offices by nominating and voting for them” pleads one; but Wilson is inexorable, and the Democrats are not permitted even to make a nomination.

There remained one thing to do. The door had been shut in the Rebel faces; it was still to be bolted. Thad. Stevens getting the floor, sent a little paper to the desk, with this:

Resolved, By the Senate and House of Representatives in Congress assembled, That a Joint Committee of fifteen members shall be appointed, nine of whom shall be members of the House and six of the Senate, who shall inquire into the condition of the States which formed the so-called Confederate States of America, and report whether any of them are entitled to be represented in either House of Congress, with leave to report at any time, by bill or otherwise; and until such report shall have been made and finally acted upon by Congress, no member shall be received in either House from any of these said so-called Confederate States; and all papers relating to the representatives of the said States shall be referred to said Committee without debate.

This is the last straw, and the burdened opposition determine to fillibuster. They object, under the rules, to its reception. Stevens grimly moves to suspend the rules. They demand the yeas and nays, and get them; one hundred and twenty-nine to their beggarly thirty-five. They move to lay on the table, and demand the yeas and nays again, with like uncomfortable fate. Ashley wants to make a slight amendment, but members all around shout, “No! no!” The Democrats abandon the hopeless contest for their friends; and the resolution passes.

The galleries have thinned out, and the members have become inattentive. One or two trifling matters are offered; an effort is made to adjourn; the House refuses; some notice of a bill is given; the effort to adjourn is renewed; the House listlessly votes again; the Speaker rises: “The House stands adjourned till to-morrow at twelve o’clock.”

The organization is perfect, and the bars are put up before disloyal representatives of lately rebellious States—the day’s work is well done. All thanks to the true men whose honest purpose insured its doing. And so auspiciously opens the Thirty-ninth Congress.