"A Meeting of History & Fate"

Into the House of Representatives moved the stately procession of legislators, Government officials, honored guests. The President of the Senate, Hubert Horatio Humphrey, presiding over his first joint session, sat pink-cheeked and solemn in his chair. Speaker John McCormack, seated next to Humphrey, gazed sternly into space.

There was the familiar cry from Doorkeeper William ("Fishbait") Miller: "Mistah Speak-ah! The President of the United States!" There was the rush of applause, the flutter of outstretched arms in the aisle as Lyndon Johnson wove his way toward the rostrum, the predictable burst of foolishness from the Speaker, from whom tradition demands an excessive introduction: ". . . great pleasure . . . highest privilege . . . distinguished, personal honor--of presenting to you the President of the United States!"

Such were the ceremonials, old hat by now to many Americans, and yet insistently thrilling. But what followed was a departure from ritual and routine, so startling, so moving, that few who saw it or heard it will ever forget it.

From the Pulpit. Lyndon Johnson himself seemed to sense the moment as he studied the faces that gazed at him. In the visitors' gallery were Lady Bird, Lynda (Luci stayed home to study), and their guest J. Edgar Hoover; on the House floor were scores of former colleagues, the Cabinet, Chief Justice Warren and four Associate Justices of the Supreme Court. Other faces were conspicuous for their absence. The entire congressional delegations of Mississippi and Virginia and a host of fellow Southerners had deliberately stayed away.

Their neglect was understandable. Lyndon Johnson's appearance before the joint session was weighted with momentous meaning for them. This was no ordinary occasion. Not for 19 years --since Harry Truman, in the midst of a railroad strike, asked power to break crippling labor walkouts--had a President appeared before Congress assembled to plead for special legislation. But now, in the wake of public deaths and private resolve, the time had come to assure all American Negroes the right to vote.

Addressing himself thus, Johnson was never more powerful. Other Presidents have lamented the plight of the Negro but have skirted the hard words necessary to describe the depth of the Negro's deprivation. But Johnson believes with Teddy Roosevelt that the Presidency is a "bully pulpit," and with Truman, who once said, "It is only the President who is responsible to all the people." And so, on the night before and straight up to the time he arrived at the Capitol, he dwelt deeply on his subject, dictating, philosophizing, penciling, revising, emphasizing. Now he was ready.

Cathedral Hush. "I speak tonight," he began slowly, "for the dignity of man and the destiny of democracy. At times history and fate meet at a single time in a single place to shape a turning point in man's unending search for freedom. So it was last week in Selma, Alabama."

The chamber became suspended in a cathedral-like hush. Nobody coughed. Nobody whispered. Nobody rustled. The only sound was a product of the silence --the faint click-click of photographers' cameras that was audible clear across the chamber.

But pulses quickened as it became obvious that Johnson had discarded the syrupy quality that has marked many of his earlier speeches. With painful poignancy, he pricked his country's conscience, uttering the unutterable:

"Rarely in any time does an issue lay bare the secret heart of America itself. Equal rights for American Negroes is such an issue. And should we defeat every enemy, and should we double our wealth and conquer the stars, and still be unequal to this issue, then we will have failed as a people and as a nation."

The Harsh Fact. Lyndon Johnson fairly swept his audience along, drew his first applause when he quoted Matthew: "For, with a country as with a person, 'What is a man profited if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?' " The emotion took hold; the Texas twang rose and billowed. He smiled beatifically, sighed sarcastically, frowned fiercely: he pursed his lips, jerked his thumb, clenched his fists, reasoned, cajoled, commanded. No section of the U.S.. said Johnson, should "look with prideful righteousness on the troubles in another section," for "there is no Negro problem. There is no Southern problem. There is no Northern problem. There is only an American problem." This brought a quick, spontaneous burst of applause.

But, Johnson conceded, the immediate purpose of his visit dealt with the South. The founding fathers, he recalled, believed that "the most basic right of all was the right to choose your own leaders." Yet, he said, "the harsh fact is that in many places in this country men and women are kept from voting simply because they are Negroes. Every device of which human ingenuity is capable has been used to deny this right. The Negro citizen may go to register only to be told that the day is wrong, or the hour is late. And even a college degree cannot be used to prove that he can read and write. For the fact is that the only way to pass these barriers is to show a white skin."

Great Wave. When he ad-libbed that he had helped to enact three civil rights bills, his listeners gave him another handsome round, and did so again when he called on his fellow leaders to "now act in obedience" to their oaths to uphold the Constitution. By now the applause came after almost every sentence, as Johnson laid out his purpose: "I will send to Congress a law designed to eliminate illegal barriers to the right to vote," which "will provide for citizens to be registered by officials of the United States Government" when it proves necessary.

It took "eight long months" to pass the 1964 civil rights bill, Johnson thundered. "This time, on this issue," he cried, rising to a climax, "there must be no delay, or no hesitation, or no compromise with our purpose!" Slowly at first, then like a great wave, the applause grew. After a long minute. Emanuel Celler of New York, dean of the House and a longtime civil libertarian, jumped to his feet, bringing others in the chamber to their feet with him, Democrats first, then Republicans. For 30 seconds they stood, pouring out a Niagara of applause.

Lyndon Johnson was not through. He warned: "Even if we pass this bill, the battle will not be over. What happened in Selma is part of a far larger movement ... the effort of American Negroes to secure for themselves the full blessings of American life." With touching earnestness, he pleaded: "Their cause must be our cause too. Because it's not just Negroes, but really it's all of us who must overcome the crippling legacy of bigotry and injustice." Then, in careful, metered, sledgehammer syllables, he added: "And-we-shall-over-come!" Without hesitation--no leader this time needed to start it --his audience rose in another thunderous standing ovation.

By the time he was finished, Lyndon Johnson had painted for all the nation to see a picture of a man shorn of cant, newly committed and unalterably dedicated to the civil rights cause. Long ago--as Congressman and Senator--he had been among those who manned the barricades against the Negro advance by voting against key civil rights bills. There was no question now that he was involved. In his address, he illuminated that involvement in a revealing statement by which he hoped history would judge him (see box). He strode from the chamber a changed man, confident in that hope, certain that he had launched the U.S. itself inexorably toward a new purpose.

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