"Orda da!" yelled another.
"Knock 'im in de head!"
"Seddown, nigger!"
The Speaker pointed his gavel at Aleck and threatened him laughingly:
"Ef de gemman from Ulster doan set down I gwine call 'im ter orda!"
Uncle Aleck greeted this threat with a wild guffaw, which the whole House about him joined in heartily. They laughed like so many hens cackling—when one started the others would follow.
The most of them were munching peanuts, and the crush of hulls under heavy feet added a subnote to the confusion like the crackle of a prairie fire.
The ambition of each negro seemed to be to speak at least a half-dozen times on each question, saying the same thing every time.
No man was allowed to talk five minutes without an interruption which brought on another and another until the speaker was drowned in a storm of contending yells. Their struggles to get the floor with bawlings, bellowings, and contortions, and the senseless rap of the Speaker's gavel, were something appalling.
On this scene, through fetid smoke and animal roar, looked down from the walls, in marble bas-relief, the still white faces of Robert Hayne and George McDuffie, through whose veins flowed the blood of Scottish kings, while over it brooded in solemn wonder the face of John Laurens, whose diplomatic genius at the court of France won millions of gold for our tottering cause, and sent a
