The Statesmen Snowbound | Page 2

whole world, perhaps. A volume might be written in praise of that
mellow, golden fluid. There were many in our party who would gladly
add to this glowing testimony, and wax eloquent over the virtues of that
noble life-saver and panacea, referred to by our good hosts as "a little
something." Accustomed, as most of us were, to the stuff served over
the Washington bars, this was indeed well worth the trip out.
Late February is not the time to see rural Kentucky at its best, and but
few signs of spring were visible. The day of the funeral dawned with
leaden skies, and a piercing wind from the north groaned in the
chimneys, and whistled through the leafless trees on the lawn. The
branches of a huge maple scraped and fretted against my windows and
woke me several times during the night. At an early hour a servant was
piling high the fire, and the room was soon bathed in a cheerful glow,
the logs cracking and sputtering merrily. I parted the curtains of my
large old-fashioned bed, slipped to the floor feeling very well and fit,
and glanced curiously about me. Every appointment of the room was
long out of date, but nevertheless made for snugness and comfort. The
lover of antique furniture would surely revel here. I do not know what
would delight him most; the high-post bed, the dressing-table, the chest
of drawers, or the old clock on the mantel. The sheets and hangings
smelled faintly of lavender, the walls were papered with landscapes in
which pretty shepherdesses, impossible sheep, and garlands of roses
predominated,--a style much in vogue in the early forties,--indeed the
room seemed as if it had been closed and laid away by a tidy housewife

years before, and opened and aired for my reception but yesterday. An
illumined text,--a "Jonah under his Gourd," elaborately worked in
colored silks,--a smirking likeness of "The Father of his Country," and
an equally self-satisfied looking portrait of Mrs. W. hung in prominent
places.
There was a gentle tap on the door, and an ancient darky entered, with a
tall glass of whipped-cream punch, light as a feather, and as delicate as
thought. Then, breakfast, in a long, low-ceilinged room on the ground
floor, with a blazing fire at each end, a pickaninny gravely watchful
over both. Only the male members of the family were at the meal,
which was a solemn festival as befitting a house of mourning.
At ten o'clock the funeral procession left the mansion and slowly
wound its way along a rough road to a little weather-beaten church a
mile or so distant. It was set well back from the highway in the shadow
of tall pines, and looked lonely and uncared-for. In the churchyard were
a few scattered tombstones, moss-grown, and very much awry. The
graves were unkempt and sunken, and weeds and poison ivy struggled
for the mastery. The day was bitterly cold, with an occasional flurry of
snow; but, in spite of that, an immense crowd had gathered. The church
and churchyard were filled to overflowing. It was the largest collection
of queer looking people, horses, and "fixes" I have ever seen. The
services were brief, but most impressive, and it must have been a trying
ordeal for the aged clergyman, an old friend of the deceased. Several
times his voice faltered, and he seemed about to break down. The
coffin was borne to the grave by six stalwart negroes, laborers on the
estate. A lad followed, leading poor Thurlow's favorite horse. Then the
widow and her son, the relatives, friends, and family servants. A fine
male quartet sang "Nearer, my God, to Thee," and a soul-stirring
contralto, "Asleep in Jesus." Tears stood in the eyes of all, the negroes
weeping openly and uncontrollably. As the grave was filled in, the
snow began to fall in real earnest, gusts of wind lashing the pines into
fury. It was the beginning of a three days' blizzard long to be
remembered in that country.
Returning to the warmth and comfort of the homestead, we found a

vast array of eatables and drinkables; every one was welcomed, but
notwithstanding the unusual number of guests, all was well-ordered and
decorous. The Thurlows and their numerous clan are a fine-looking
folk; the men, sturdy, well set-up--a fighting people, yet generous,
kindly and hospitable. The women--gracious, lovely, and altogether
charming. Beyond the universally cherished idea of beautiful women,
blooded horses, and blue grass, my knowledge of Kentucky had been
rather vague. My information had been derived chiefly from my
experience on various Election Committees, where moonshiners,
mountain feuds, and double-barrelled shot guns played prominent parts.
Commonwealths, like communities, are advertised most widely by the
evils in their midst; a fact which jolts the reformer and drives the
optimist