As he plowed through rain and mud on the painful occasion of a night march, he addressed the man on his right in these remarkable words: "Bill, this is the last d----d time I'll ever love a country!" And it was.
The expletive, however, marked how deep dwelt the determination of Patrick Henry Hanway; for even as a young man he had taught himself a suave and cautious conversation, avoiding profanity as of those lingual vices that never made and sometimes lost a dollar.
The Senate of this republic, at the time when Patrick Henry Hanway was given his seat therein, was a thing of granite and ice to all newcomers.
The oldsters took no more notice of the novice in their midst than if he had not been, and it was Senate tradition that a member must hold his seat a year before he could speak and three before he would be listened to.

If a man were cast away on a desert island, the local savage could be relied upon to meet him on the beach and welcome him with either a square meal or club.

Not so in the cold customs of the Senate.

The wanderer thrown upon its arctic shores might starve or freeze or perish in what way he would; never an oldster of them all would make a sign.
Each sat in mighty state, like some ancient walrus on his cake of ice, and made the new one feel his littleness.

If through ignorance or worse the new one sought to be heard, the old walruses goggle-eyed him ferociously.