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  THE STATESMEN SNOWBOUND

  _By_ ROBERT FITZGERALD

  _Illustrated by Wad-el-Ward_

  New York and WashingtonTHE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY1909

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  I. The Funeral

  II. Senator Bull and Mr. Ridley--Trials and Tribulations of the Newly Fledged Member

  III. Colonel Manysnifters--An Outing with the "Jewels"

  IV. An Accident--Dinner

  V. Senator Bull's Story

  VI. Representative Holloway Has the Floor

  VII. Representative Van Rensselaer Unfolds a Strange Tale

  VIII. Senator Wendell Reads "The Creaking of the Stairs"

  IX. Senator Hammond's Experience

  X. Mr. Callahan's Story

  XI. What Happened to Denmead

  XII. O'Brien's Narrative

  XIII. An Uninvited Guest

  ILLUSTRATIONS

  Senator Bull and Sammy Ridley

  President Madison

  Senator Pennypacker

  Colonel Ross Addressing the Jury

  "Stick to the Thirteenth Commandment!"

  The Kiss

  Manuel Villasante

  Papa Villasante

  "Upon each stair the clear impression of a naked human foot!"

  "Ah Moy, shrieking, turned and fled!"

  "Shoved a revolver right up in the teeth of the prosperousone!"

  "Writes the dramatic criticisms for the moving-picture shows"

  "Framed in the doorway stood one of the finest examples of the earlyGothic I have ever seen"

  Professor Habib

  An Uninvited Guest

  The Statesmen Snowbound

  I

  THE FUNERAL

  Toward the close of the --th Congress I was designated a member of acommittee on the part of the House to accompany the remains of the lateSenator Thurlow to their last resting-place at the old home in Kentucky.And it might be well to state here that I am quite aware that some of myungrateful countrymen apply the spiteful term "junket" to a journey ofthis description. When one considers the sacrifices we Congressmen makein order to serve the nation, it is hard to believe that unthinkingpersons begrudge us a little pleasure. In many cases we give up all homelife, business interests, and personal comfort, and take up our abode insecond-rate hotels and boarding-houses. We are continually pestered andannoyed by office-seekers, book-agents, cranks, and reporters; and,alas, we form habits that cling like barnacles, try as hard as we may toshake them off. A taste of public life is fatal to most men, and thedesire to feed from the public crib goes right to the bone. It is like acancer, and it is removed only with grave danger to the afflicted.Everything, therefore, which may lighten our burdens and tend to relievethe situation should be the aim and study of our constituents. But thismay be digression.

  The trip out was necessarily a quiet one, though a well-stocked buffetkept the delegation from absolute depression. Leaving Washington earlyin the afternoon we arrived at the little Kentucky town the next morningabout eleven o'clock, and found that we had yet some five miles to goover bad roads to the homestead. We were met by two nephews of thedeceased, with a host of relatives and friends. The son, Albert Thurlow,came on with us from Washington. There was ample accommodation in theway of conveyances, and we proceeded slowly up into the higher country.In something more than an hour the house was reached--a big home-likestructure, large enough for us all, and the entertainment most lavish.The estate was an extensive one, and the innumerable outbuildings andwell-stocked barns gave evidence of wealth and thrift. A long drivebetween rows of lofty poplars led to the main entrance, and the viewfrom the front of the house down to the river was superb. There wereservants in abundance, and nothing had been overlooked to insure ourcomfort. The stables were the attraction for most of our party, andseveral kings of the turf were brought out for inspection. We were takenall over the place, and many things of interest were shown us. A Bibleand powder-horn, once the property of Daniel Boone, books with theautograph of Henry Clay, duelling pistols, quaint and almost pricelesssilver and china, and a rare collection of old prints and familyportraits. The walls in one room were fairly lined with cups, thetrophies of many a famous meet.

  And such whiskey! There is nothing like it in Washington, or in thewhole world, perhaps. A volume might be written in praise of thatmellow, golden fluid. There were many in our party who would gladly addto this glowing testimony, and wax eloquent over the virtues of thatnoble life-saver and panacea, referred to by our good hosts as "a littlesomething." Accustomed, as most of us were, to the stuff served over theWashington bars, this was indeed well worth the trip out.

  Late February is not the time to see rural Kentucky at its best, and butfew signs of spring were visible. The day of the funeral dawned withleaden skies, and a piercing wind from the north groaned in thechimneys, and whistled through the leafless trees on the lawn. Thebranches of a huge maple scraped and fretted against my windows and wokeme several times during the night. At an early hour a servant was pilinghigh the fire, and the room was soon bathed in a cheerful glow, the logscracking and sputtering merrily. I parted the curtains of my largeold-fashioned bed, slipped to the floor feeling very well and fit, andglanced curiously about me. Every appointment of the room was long outof date, but nevertheless made for snugness and comfort. The lover ofantique furniture would surely revel here. I do not know what woulddelight him most; the high-post bed, the dressing-table, the chest ofdrawers, or the old clock on the mantel. The sheets and hangings smelledfaintly of lavender, the walls were papered with landscapes in whichpretty shepherdesses, impossible sheep, and garlands of rosespredominated,--a style much in vogue in the early forties,--indeed theroom seemed as if it had been closed and laid away by a tidy housewifeyears before, and opened and aired for my reception but yesterday. Anillumined text,--a "Jonah under his Gourd," elaborately worked incolored silks,--a smirking likeness of "The Father of his Country," andan equally self-satisfied looking portrait of Mrs. W. hung in prominentplaces.

  There was a gentle tap on the door, and an ancient darky entered, with atall glass of whipped-cream punch, light as a feather, and as delicateas thought. Then, breakfast, in a long, low-ceilinged room on the groundfloor, with a blazing fire at each end, a pickaninny gravely watchfulover both. Only the male members of the family were at the meal, whichwas a solemn festival as befitting a house of mourning.

  At ten o'clock the funeral procession left the mansion and slowly woundits way along a rough road to a little weather-beaten church a mile orso distant. It was set well back from the highway in the shadow of tallpines, and looked lonely and uncared-for. In the churchyard were a fewscattered tombstones, moss-grown, and very much awry. The graves wereunkempt and sunken, and weeds and poison ivy struggled for the mastery.The day was bitterly cold, with an occasional flurry of snow; but, inspite of that, an immense crowd had gathered. The church and churchyardwere filled to overflowing. It was the largest collection of queerlooking people, horses, and "fixes" I have ever seen. The services werebrief, but most impressive, and it must have been a trying ordeal forthe aged clergyman, an old friend of the deceased. Several times hisvoice faltered, and he seemed about to break down. The coffin was borneto the grave by six stalwart negroes, laborers on the estate. A ladfollowed, leading poor Thurlow's favorite horse. Then the widow and herson, the relatives, friends, and family servants. A fine male quartetsang "Nearer, my God, to Thee," and a soul-stirring contralto, "Asleepin Jesus." Tears stood in the eyes of all, the negroes weeping openlya
nd uncontrollably. As the grave was filled in, the snow began to fallin real earnest, gusts of wind lashing the pines into fury. It was thebeginning of a three days' blizzard long to be remembered in thatcountry.

  Returning to the warmth and comfort of the homestead, we found a vastarray of eatables and drinkables; every one was welcomed, butnotwithstanding the unusual number of guests, all was well-ordered anddecorous. The Thurlows and their numerous clan are a fine-looking folk;the men, sturdy, well set-up--a fighting people, yet generous, kindlyand hospitable. The women--gracious, lovely, and altogether charming.Beyond the universally cherished idea of beautiful women, bloodedhorses, and blue grass, my knowledge of Kentucky had been rather vague.My information had been derived chiefly from my experience on variousElection Committees, where moonshiners, mountain feuds, anddouble-barrelled shot guns played prominent parts. Commonwealths, likecommunities, are advertised most widely by the _evils_ in their midst; afact which jolts the reformer and drives the optimist to drink. Thelordly manner of living, the immense estates, and the magnificenthospitality of our hosts, was a revelation to me; and an occasionalreference by one of the older servants to the grandeur of antebellumdays indicated a condition of even greater splendor and luxury. But thecruel hand of war had devastated and impoverished the country, theslaves were freed, and the land for years lay untilled and neglected.Marse Henry, the head of the house, was killed in almost the firstbattle of the war. Marse Breckinridge died, a prisoner in Fort Warren,and now Marse Preston had followed them to the land of shadows. UncleEph'm, himself, was getting very feeble and helpless, and it would notbe long before he joined his loved ones on the other shore. De good oletimes were gone forever!

  It was with regret that I left this attractive home, and I gladlyaccepted an invitation to return in the fall for the shooting. For theshooting, indeed! Why, _that_ was all over! Dan Cupid never aimed truer!My wife--a Kentuckian--says that I will never shine as a Nimrod, but itseems to me that I have had pretty fair success in that role.