The Senate came into the Representative chamber at noon, to effect, on joint ballot, the election of Governor.  The President of the Senate took his seat with the Speaker of the House, and in obedience to law assumed the presidency of the assembled body.  The members were ordered to prepare their ballots to vote for the Governor of the State.  The Secretary of the Senate called the roll of the Senate, each man, as his name was called, moving up to the clerk’s desk, and depositing his ballot.  The same routine was then gone through with on the part of the House, when the hat (for a hat was used) containing the ballots was handed to the President of the Senate, Thomas Stocks, of Greene County, who proceeded to count the ballots, and finding only the proper number, commenced to call the name from each ballot.  Pending this calling the silence was painfully intense.  Every place within the spacious hall, the gallery, the lobby, the committee-rooms, and the embrasures of the windows were all filled to crushing repletion.  And yet not a word or sound, save the excited breathing of ardent men, disturbed the anxious silence of the hall.  One by one the ballots were called.  There were 166 ballots, requiring 84 to elect.  When 160 ballots were counted, each candidate had 80, and at this point the excitement was so painfully intense that the President suspended the count, and, though it was chilly November, took from his pocket his handkerchief, and wiped from his flushed face the streaming perspiration.  While this was progressing, a wag in the gallery sang out, “The darkest time of night is just before day.”  This interruption was not noticed by the President, who called out “Troup!” then “Talbot!” and again there was a momentary suspension.  Then he called again, “Troup—­Talbot!” “82—­82,” was whispered audibly through the entire hall.  Then the call was resumed.  “Troup!” “A tie,” said more than a hundred voices.  There remained but one ballot.  The President turned the hat up-side down, and the ballot fell upon the table.  Looking down upon it, he called, at the top of his voice, “Troup!” The scene that followed was indescribable.  The two parties occupied separate sides of the chamber.  Those voting for Troup rose simultaneously from their seats, and one wild shout seemed to lift the ceiling overhead.  Again, with increased vim, was it given.  The lobby and the galleries joined in the wild shout.  Members and spectators rushed into each others’ arms, kissed each other, wept, shouted, kicked over the desks, tumbled on the floor, and for ten minutes this maddening excitement suspended the proceedings of the day.  It was useless for the presiding officer to command order, if, indeed, his feelings were sufficiently under control to do so.  When exhaustion had produced comparative silence, Duffie, with the full brogue of the County Carlow upon his tongue, ejaculated:  “O Lord, we thank Thee!  The State is redeemed from the rule of the Devil and John Clarke.”  Mercer waddled from the chamber,