THE CONGRESS: This Side of the Grave

Matthew Neely is 75, a spouter of purple poetry and a wearer of tweed suits which come in shades of lemon and green. A veteran of the Spanish-American War, and a tireless joiner (Elk, Moose, Odd Fellow, Mason), Matt Neely is an ex-Congressman from West Virginia, served a term as governor of his state, is now in his fourth term as U.S. Senator. On the record, Senator Neely is a politician.

Senate leaders, trying to get on with things last week, had just about agreed to bring the President's vital economic-control bill to a vote on Friday, but they had reckoned without West Virginia's Senator. Many-hued Matt Neely arose. On Friday, he announced in his best stumping voice, the Young Democratic Club of West Virginia would be holding a rally. He wanted to be there. "In my opinion," he declaimed, "except the saving of immortal souls, the most important thing this side of the grave to the people of the world is the success of the Democratic Party in the approaching election. The success of the Democratic Party in the nation is largely dependent upon its success in West Virginia." (Six House, no Senate seats are at stake.) In short, Matt Neely was going to the meeting and he would like to have the vote on the control bill taken when he could be there. The Senate leaders put it over until this week.

"Blind . . . Pigheaded." In that manner, all week, the nation's Senators went about the nation's business—solemnly reminding one another of their mutual responsibilities, sniffing the political winds, getting very tired of one another, sometimes letting their tempers pop.

In a House-Senate conference over the $34.5 billion omnibus appropriation bill, Senate Appropriations Chairman Kenneth McKellar, ancient (81) Tennessee feudist, tangled with an old enemy—House Appropriations Chairman Clarence Cannon, 71. McKellar yelled that Missouri's Cannon was "blind . . . stupid . . . pigheaded" and altogether "goddamned." Cannon, who several years ago traded blows with New York's brass-lunged John Taber, started after McKellar. The tottering McKellar grabbed his long-handled gavel and got ready to swing. Colleagues managed to keep the two old cocks apart.

Pork on the Highways. McKellar shuffled off to brood over his grouches and, later in the day, to take his turn presiding over the Senate. There, Tennessee's irascible spoilsman encountered another enemy—Paul Douglas of Illinois, who had tried his best, without success, to pry some of the pork out of the same $32.5 billion omnibus appropriation bill. Now Douglas was attacking the pork in a $1.2 billion roads and highways bill.*

Oregon's mischievous Wayne Morse inquired innocently whether it wasn't a fact that the Southern states had shirked responsibility in helping to provide for their own highways. Douglas agreed that it might be so. Arkansas' McClellan was on his feet protesting such an outrageous libel. McKellar pounded his gavel so hard it flew out of his hands, fixed Douglas in a baleful stare, invoked Rule 19, which forbids any Senator to speak derogatorily of a state, and demanded unanimous consent to have Douglas' remarks expunged.