USA > Georgia > The bench and bar of Georgia: memoirs and sketches. With an appendix, containing a court roll from 1790-1857, etc., volume II > Part 10
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How sharply to my ear The ticking clock tells o'er the leaden hours! Sleepless, like me, beneath its garland sere It labors through the night: its tones are sharp As is the clicking of the winter sleet Upon a tomb ; and, mocking my pall'd ear, They seem the dread and saddening echoes of The fleshless foot of death, that falls upon The bones of all I love, as slow he steals On his destroying course.
I'll rise and look
Upon the blue and solemn skies : perchance Their dark and vast serenity may calm My soul to rest. Their orbs of purest light, That I have deem'd kind ministers of love And loveliness, may pour upon my soul Bright thoughts of other days, to cheer its gloom.
How beautiful, sublimely beautiful, The boundless dome of yon eternal sky ! Whose dusky and yet clear magnificence Temples the silent stars, that rise, and watch, And weep, above this lost and stricken world, Sleeping in foggy night; and now they view, As long and changelessly from high they've seen, The same dark host of passions lull'd to rest, The same dull orb, with its uncounted graves, Kingdoms in ruins, mighty cities hid In desert sands, and others springing up Like destiny to share. They weep o'er all, And, glowing far and tremulously bright, They seem the tears of angels, shed above This lost and wasted world, and by their light, Sad, purely spiritual, and meek with love, Like the full eye of charity, to win, While weeping o'er the fallen, from the dust To their eternal light and quietude.
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This city spreads below me, dull and black, Its houses crowded, and confusedly blent In one dim mass: its hum is hush'd; its lights Are gone, save yonder lamp, that casts a glare, Wavering and weak, upon the snowy couch Where wasted man is sinking to the grave, While, sadly weeping, stand his friends around, Or steal like spirits through the dismal room, Awed by the might of death, or as they fear To fright the presence of eternal sleep From the weak lids that tremble o'er the eyes, Hollow with agony, where faintly burns The fading glow of life.
And now the stars
Look.silently upon the few that watch- Not sleep-away the night, like me denied To rest by pain ; and on the sleep of those More blest than I,-the pure, the innocent, Young in existence, old in hope and joy That soon will fly and leave them desolate. Their dreams are beautiful, because unlike The life they soon must wake to ; and the sad, Cheer'd by the visions of the past, are glad Their crush'd and tortured spirits now can soar From life,-that over-fill'd and gloomy grave Where myriads rot. Death yields his phantoms now To lull, to soothe, perchance to sear, the heart Of guiltiness, with an undying pang, That, worm-like, wastes beneath the seeming calm. Amid the host of hearts that beat below, None have a pulse for me. I stand alone Among my kind ; no human blood doth change Its flow at my approach, no bosom warms. All, all are cold to me: my spirit bends, Like a lone willow, o'er her monument Who, living, would have loved me ; naught may lift, Save the wild tempests, from her grave my thoughts. So young, and yet so friendless, sad, am I! And yet I weep not. All my joys are gone, And friends shrink from me, as retainers from An empty board where once they feasted. Time Will deepen my already dismal lot ; For I shall live, I dread, to weak old age. The heart that's blighted in the spring of youth Clings longest to the wither'd bough of life. Existence pledges me no future bliss ; And, careless as an unloved child may listen Unto a father's will, unmoved I hear Her poor bequests, among the eager cold. When I am old and wither'd, when decay Of my gray hairs shall weave a winding-sheet O'er blighted hopes and melancholy thoughts That die away, I shall be all alone; And, when I sink into my humble grave, None will weep o'er me, none remember me. My parents will be dust : they only love me ;- A dark foreboding! yet my soul can bear Its gloom, nor murmur,-victor by resolve, And pride that stoops not o'er unfriendly fate. VOL. II .- 6
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Four stanzas more will conclude the quotations from the little volume in hand, (p. 81.)
I. Though fate of all others bereaves me, My soul to that fate is resign'd ; Though the last star my destiny gives me Goes out in the gloom of my mind, I shrink not from sorrow, nor fear it, Though my bosom is bare to the blast :
While thy spirit is beaming to cheer it, Existence can ne'er be a waste.
II.
Though all others in sorrow may fly me, I ask not a smile or a tear; I am blest until fate shall deny me The love of thy spirit to share. 'Tis a beam that was born out of sadness ; It dawn'd when all others had set, And, beguiling my soul from its madness, Burns lofty and beautiful yet. III.
The mariners dread not, nor tremble, Though the stars from the firmament wane, When the clouds in their darkness assemble, And the wind sweeps the desolate main ; They care not what beams are denied them, As on o'er the waters they roam, If their pole-star will steadily guide them And point out their track o'er the foam. IV.
Of the love of all others I'm careless ; I would not, if granted their light; In the storm and the darkness I'm fearless, If thy spirit yet beacons the night. My thoughts never bow them despairing While that quenchless and beautiful ray, In the light of its purity cheering, Sheds brightness and peace on their way.
From verse a transition is here made to prose in form, but it is poetry in spirit. The date of its composition is not marked on the fragment. It is supposed to be descriptive of his own tastes and solitary musings, and, from the appearance of the manuscript, to have been written about his twentieth year. It is entitled "CLIO," and the opening half is as follows :-
Even when a boy he hated the schools, and was glad to escape in the summer to the brook-side, beneath the old and upright rocks overgrown with creeping and flowering plants, from whose summit a huge and half- blighted poplar towered. Seated there in a little recess on three sides walled in by the rocks, the fourth opening to the entrance overhung by bushes, he would listen delightedly to the song of the wild bird, or the whispering of the fragrant flowers in their green livery, or the gentle and quietly failing breeze and the gurgling creek, or watch the butterflies
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floating from flower to flower, now folding as they paused, now spreading out their brilliant wings, or gazing at the chameleon as he glided down an old decayed log, steal into his cool retreat, or spring nimbly from twig to twig.
At other times, beneath the shade of the green birch, he would stretch himself on the grassy margin of the creek, and dream vaguely of coming life,-of her beauty, fame, and joy,-of good men, and pure sweet women whose smiles made earth a paradise : vague, beautiful, and ever-shifting pictures, all bright and innocent, floated through his calm and sinless spirit, like the white clouds along the deep, unearthly azure of the summer skies, all purity and peace within. Passion was awed by the universal aspect of living beauty and speaking love that nature spread around, and would not disturb by its ruffling wing the soul reflecting her loveliness.
Sometimes his sister was the companion of his wandering hours; and then some simple tale of brave knight and lovely lady, or some pathetic ballad of disappointed love, (then a passion he never dreamed of being the prey of,) would either set hope to work, building her mimic scenes of triumph and love, or arouse a calm and gentle emotion of pity, that swept like a passing shade, leaving no stain behind, over his noble heart. His dog, too, was always with him, and, by the quick wag of his tail, the fond and intelligent sparkle of his brown eyes, or the glad bark or sportive bounds, seemed to sympathize with his delight. In such scenes it was that he nursed the love of nature in his heart, that, like a desolate orphan kindly nurtured and reared to manhood, cheered in its gloomy decline his blighted spirit.
Aside from the euphony of the style and the romantic visions of the young writer, there is nothing to be particularly praised in the above extract. It shows the rich imagination and great com- mand of language he possessed at so early a period; and for this purpose alone it is here copied.
The handwriting of the two stanzas that follow denotes that they were composed previous to his eighteenth year. They are headed "THE BOOK AND THE BREEZE."
Bright slept the evening's purple ray Upon the hillock's grassy slope, Where 'mid the flowers I musing lay, Fann'd by a breeze as fresh as hope. My book beside me on the sward My careless hand had idly thrown ;
From every leaf the glorious bard In glowing thoughts of beauty shone.
The freshening wind turn'd slowly o'er The rustling leaves, and 'neath the light Each moment some new thought, and pure, Lay gilded by the raylets bright. Though pleasures bloom around, O God, Grant thus my every day to be Traced, like that book upon the sod, With thoughts that Thou wilt smile to see.
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The touching lines next introduced appear to have been written on the death of a married sister :*-
My sister, shall we meet no more? My sister, shall we greet no more ? Shall I no more behold thee come Through yonder gate-way to our home ? No more thy flowing robes my eye Through the orchard's boughs espy ? And haste to meet thee, earliest, best, And truest friend my life has known ? No more fold thee to my heaving breast, Thy lovely form, my cherish'd one ? Nor press thy lips, nor part the hair Back from thy forehead smooth and fair,- While thy blue eyes, all dewy bright, Turn on my own their tender light, Whose every ray to me declares Thy soul unchanged with rolling years, And tells the love that dawn'd with life, Unchill'd by time, unchanged by strife, Its trembling birth of beauty past, Will warm and brighten to the last, Till, melting like the setting sun, Its course is o'er, and heaven is won ?
Shall I no more, when all the west Sublimely lights the world to rest, Beside thee sit, while blithely round Thy sportive children sing and bound, And mark with joy upon thy face Thy love for them,-new beauty trace ? Thy glance that follows where they hie, As once our mother's gentle eye, 'Neath other skies, now far away, Smiled on us at our evening play. Nor listen, 'mid the twilight air, Now to their short and simple prayer, Nor mark thy snowy finger raise Before their young and eager gaze, While love and faith hath lit thy glance With brighter, purer radiance, To some high planet fair and bright That blazes through the azure night, While simple words, that suit them well, Of paradise and angels tell, And fall upon their minds as dews On fresh-turn'd buds, and deep infuse, Though light and soft they feel the glow Of worlds from whence their crystals flow.
Shall I no more behold thee sit Beside our hearth, nor hear the wit That from thy spirit shining came, As from the sun a glance of flame, Warm, bright, and native from the heart And kindling mind, an instant dart?
* Mrs. Marianne Howard, (wife of Thomas C. Howard, Esq.,) died in 1847.
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No more shall hear that warbling tongue Breathe out the sweetest tones of song ? Shall I no more, when frowning fate My future renders desolate,- When hope is faint, and woe, and fear Cast o'er my brow the gloom of care,- My throbbing forehead fondly rest Upon thy soft and kindly breast, And feel, whatever fate may come, There, there, my heart may find a home?
No, never, never! the tomb doth hold Thy lifeless ashes, dim and cold. Thy father's form in grief is bow'd As vanish'd· hours upon him crowd ; Thy mother's cheek is wan with woe, And sadness sits upon her brow ; Thy sisters and thy brothers, all Are crush'd by thine untimely fall ; Thy children, yet too young to know A mother's loss, are sporting now ; Yet oft amid their play-
Here the poem closes, in the middle of a couplet, clearly proving that he had not finished it. The manuscript shows that no cor- rections had been made after the muse breathed her first notes of sadness. The reader will hardly fail to sympathize with the occasion,-a brother's heart mourning a sister's love !
An effusion of about three hundred lines, entitled "The Chero- kee," contains great variety of scene, mostly in the forest, on the mountains and rivers of Upper Georgia. There is much character and sentiment expressed in it, such as may be supposed applicable to the Indian tribes in a state of nature. It thus begins :-
A virgin continent around me woos With its wild loveliness my grateful muse : Shall I, forgetful, cross the deep to find Themes for my song, my country left behind ? Where is a land on which a deeper blue Divinely bends than that I proudly view,- Where broader rivers sweep to join the main, All brightly winding through their rich domain,- Where prouder mountains look o'er softer vales, Or greener forests wave to fresher gales? Nor higher hearts, nor fairer maidens form'd For love's sweet worship with his spirit warm'd, Invite the poet, than the dusky band, The forest-children of my native land : Free as the rivers by whose sides they roam, The sky their temple, and the wood their home,- Their gods the elements that bless or fright, The eternal fires that warm the world, and light,- To these their prayers in simple accents rise Pure as the dew that with the morning flies.
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From a paper found, apparently addressed to some one for information, to which the answers are in a different handwriting, Indian definitions are asked and thus given :- Coosa means Creek Indian ; Coosawattie, old Creek Indian; Silacoe, bear-grass ; Altoona, two branches together. And English words are thus rendered into Cherokee :- The sun, nar-tor ; the moon, nar-tor-ser- noy-a-he ; a star, nor-qui-see ; a spring, am-arku-nu-kor ; a flower, ah; a white cloud, oh-lo-ki-lor ; morning, su-nar-lee; evening, ser-ke-ya ; lightning, arn-arc-lee ; thunder, ¿- he-re-tar-qur-lo-ro-ur ; a bird, ts-es-qua ; a fawn, ho-roy ; a mountain, or-tar-lee ; a fort, ur-nil-stee ; a dove, coo-lu-teas-cor-nee ; an eagle, wor-hil-la ; day, echa ; night, ser-nor-gee; spring; cor-kee; summer, cor-kay; autumn, oo-luc-ost ; winter, cau-lar; a cool wind, oo-hu-nte-ler ; a hot day, oo-tee-lay-ker.
It is believed that Mr. Hall sought these Indians terms to be used in the poem or some legend which he intended to write. Several hundred pages of his manuscript are in the author's pos- session, much of it fragmentary and in the rough draft: not a stanza or couplet of the whole, however, is destitute of poetic ability and a true taste for nature. The pieces selected are not, perhaps, equal to some others in strength and vivacity; but the paging is not marked nor the connection preserved so as to guide the compiler. The specimens already given, both from the printed volume and from manuscript, will suffice in the department of the muses, as it was not there that he toiled for and gathered his brightest laurels. It is much regretted that a large quantity of his manuscript composition,-poetry and prose,-and nearly the whole of his correspondence, together with a valuable library embracing the best works in Latin, English, and French, on history and philosophy, were destroyed by fire with his dwelling- house in the city of Macon, in 1853. Though really a great loss to him, and such as would have depressed most other men, he never permitted a cloud to darken his brow. He knew the fertility of his own genius and the vigor of his own organization too well for sadness to follow such a misfortune.
It may be proper to acquaint the reader that Mr. Hall had renounced celibacy on the 22d day of March, 1848, by inter- marriage with Miss Mary D. Ashe, daughter of the late Thomas Ashe, of Bladen county, North Carolina. About the 1st of Janu- ary, 1849, he removed from Knoxville to the city of Macon, where he was taken into partnership with his eldest brother, Samuel Hall, Esq. His health in the mean time was feeble, and severe appli-
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cation to office-labor was found to be injurious. The first speech* he made at the bar was in the Supreme Court of Georgia, held at Americus in July, 1850, on which occasion he displayed great legal ability in the argument, on a brief well prepared, which no doubt had its influence, as the decision was in his favor. From that time his legal character was established and his reputation onward.
Though a digression from the narrative, the author flatters himself to say that his personal relations with Mr. Hall were most cordial from their first acquaintance in 1850, and ripened into the purest mutual friendship. The following letter addressed to the author is in proof :-
MACON, February 10, 1852.
MY DEAR SIR :- This letter will be handed to you by Dr. - , of Virginia. In thus presenting Dr. - to you, I am performing what is to me a pleasant office of courtesy; for, while I am making the doctor acquainted with one in whom I know he will discover every quality that can render friendship desirable and association pleasant, to you I am introducing a gentleman who can appreciate your amiable traits, and in whom, I doubt not, you will find an agreeable companion, and, (if he shall carry out his design of settling in Oglethorpe,) I trust, a valuable friend. Dr. - desires a location for the practice of his profession. He is a gentleman of thorough medical education, and has had some experience in the city of Baltimore, both in medicine and surgery. He is the brother-in-law of a highly-esteemed connection of mine, and I feel inte- rested in his success. Any assistance you may render him in effecting the object of his visit to your place will be added to the list of kindnesses for which I am already your debtor.
Truly, your friend, ROBERT P. HALL.
The literary character of Mr. Hall attracted the friendship and civilities of William Gilmore Simms, LL.D., as the following letter will show :-
WOODLANDS, February 24, 1852. ·
ROBERT P. HALL, Esq. :
DEAR SIR :- Your poem of Andre Chenier has been received safely and read with pleasure. I thank you for the privilege of perusal in advance of the public. It is a thoughtful piece of narrative musing, con- templative and descriptive. The stanzas are generally well constructed, and fit well together. They need frequent pruning, however; but this will not be a difficult matter to you, under proper suggestion. Were you here, it would give me pleasure to read the piece with you and give you my notions as we proceed. As the matter now stands, however, you must exercise your own thought and vigilance, and courageously employ the knife. A poem that depends little upon its passion and invention, which
* In Hollinshead, adm'r, vs. Mckenzie, 8 Ga. Rep. 457.
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has few incidents, and which is chiefly descriptive and contemplative,-at most emotional,-requires to be exquisite of finish. I would not have you add or take away a stanza, if you will only trim up neatly (as you easily may) what you have written.
I find sometimes too great redundancy of epithet, and sometimes a feeble exposition of the thought, which a change of phrase and member would easily remedy. Altogether, however, there is less work to be done upon it than I had anticipated. There are some very sweet pictures of scenery and of domestic happiness, and many choice and delicate fancies, which require only to be freed of occasional words.
In answer to your request, I have only to say that if you publish I shall feel honored by the dedication. But I must also add that, if you calculate in any degree upon profit from the publication of poetry, you are probably destined to disappointment. It is very rare that young poets, or, indeed, any poets in this or any country, receive compensation for their writings. As a contributor of original verse to the magazines, you might earn a trifle, such as would scarcely be worth consideration. It is in this way only that my verses have ever brought me any money. If you should arrange for the publication of the poem under this caveat, and shall deter- mine to print in Charleston where I could see the proofs, it would give me pleasure to revise it for you. There are one hundred and ninety- three stanzas. These, at three to the page, would (including title-page, preface, &c.) make sixty-five to seventy pages. This, for an edition of five hundred in cloth, would probably cost you - dollars. Of the sale I could tell you nothing, and promise nothing. All the things of the sort which I print, I print to give away. They rarely sell ; and I seldom at- tempt to sell them. Should you make a good story of your novel, (by which I mean a story the interest of which is well kept up and animated,) you would be more likely to succeed in selling it.
All I can recall at present of Pribes you will find, I think, in Stevens's Georgia. I was struck with the narrative myself. On the subject of Indian traders, see Adair's Indians, and Picket's recent volumes. I do not recollect any thing of Palmer's Agency. But see Hewatt's History of South Carolina, &c.
I notice what you say in reference to -. - will only publish for you if you pay all the expenses. He will then, precisely like all the North- ern publishers, be indifferent whether the book sells or not,-will not offer it, and hardly advertise. If you will be counselled by me, you will pub- lish it anonymously, as before, and let it go for what it is worth. After that, abandon all fictitous writing, whether prose or verse, except in such fictions as will enable you to exercise that faculty of invention you pos- sess,-such as will enable you to devolve the interest upon the incident. I speak now with regard to the single object of deriving a profit from your labors.
I would recommend that, in publishing André Chenier, you would give it some such title as will show that you designed a purely contemplative poem : say, "The Lament of Andre Chenier," or something of the sort. I think you should introduce the poem with a brief biographical sketch of the subject and a few select specimens from his verse. I have said all that I perhaps need to say, dealing with you frankly. I wish that I could say more of an encouraging character. But you must be content to toil, to suffer, to work on, and wait. The poet must be above human reward if he would secure it.
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ROBERT P. HALL.
I am, as usual, very busy. Next week I leave for the city, where I will be kept all the month of March on the Review. Do you attempt criti- cism ? Write me in Charleston. Yours very truly, W. GILMORE SIMMS.
P.S .- I shall take "André Chenier" with me to Charleston, and leave it with Mr. Hart, the publisher, awaiting you. W. G. S.
This letter is creditable both to the author of it and the gentle- man to whom it was addressed. It exhibits a writer of mature fame, soothing and leading on, by friendly service, a youth of unquestioned genius, who had a reputation to establish. What be- came of the poem referred to does not appear. It has never been published, nor has its story or framework been made known to the author of this memoir. That it possessed a high degree of merit is clear from the testimony of Mr. Simms. Fortunately, Mr. Hall had other gifts more likely to secure fortune and eminence than the power of versification. The article written by Mr. Simms, and published in the Southern Quarterly Review, on the "Poems by a South Carolinan," was flattering enough to comfort any votary of the muse, whether of eighteen or thrice that number of years.
The last production of the kind submitted to the author is a poem of some fifty pages in manuscript, incomplete, from the pen of Mr. Hall, entitled, " WENONA : a Legend of the Dalcotahs." It abounds in beautiful delineations of Indian life, its simplicity, with the wild incidents and graces of forest brotherhood. Many passages might be selected of decided vigor and polish ; but the space already occupied in this memoir by quotations makes it necessary to curtail.
It has rarely occurred that one so young has obtained such ele- vation in literary and legal pursuits. Nothing more need be said of Mr. Hall after introducing the expressions of the Supreme Court. If no other memorial existed, these would be a sufficient passport to fame. There is no instance on record where a more complete and unqualified admission of superiority has been made in a method so formal and from a quarter so much entitled to respect. In de- livering the opinion in a case* argued by Mr. Hall, Judge Lumpkin said :-
I regret sincerely that the reporter is forbidden to publish in extenso the argument submitted by Robert P. Hall, Esq., in this case. It would constitute an abiding monument of his ability and research, and deserves to be preserved in an enduring form.
* Wright vs. Hicks, 12 Ga. Rep. 166.
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At Decatur, in 1853, Judge Starnes also paid him a high compli- ment in an opinion* he delivered :-
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