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HOMu LIFE OF LIBERTY HALL.
URING the early seventies the writer
came on a visit to middle Georgia,
and bringing with him a leter of
introduction to the Honorable Alex
ander H. Stephens, from one of his
most intimate friends, Richard Malcomb
Johnston. A morning’s ride from At
lanta brought him to the quaint old
D
L- —. . I town of Crawfordville. Walking from
the station along a well beaten path, through a
'grove of trees, many of them planted by the hands
of Mr. Stephens, he reached an old fashioned coun
try home with modest pretensions, and knocked
for admittance. The door was promptly opened
by the negro body-servant of Mr. Stephens, and an
nouncing my name, ,1 was led through the hallway
into the rear annex of the house; through the li
brary and into the presence of the Sage of Liberty
Hall.
My greeting was cordial and I was assured that
at Liberty Hall I would be expected to make my
self at home, and must remain as long as it was
my pleasure to do so. It was a unique household.
Parson O’Neill, a personal friend of Mr. Stephens,
was housekeeper, old Harry, the body-servant, was
chambermaid. There were no women about the
house, although there may have been a colored wom
an who presided over the kitchen. Several young
men, the sons of personal friends of Mr. Stephens,
were taking a law course under his wise tutelage,
and were receiving such rare instruction as was
scarcely obtainable at a university.
So the entire household was masculine; and while
no feminine touch was seen, the ordering of all
things at Liberty Hall was as careful and tasteful
as if it were being presided over by an accomplish
ed lady housekeeper.
Those young law students brightened the life of
Mr. Stephens, and kept him in touch with develop
ing young manhood. And if any of these young
men are now successful lawyers in Georgia or some
far-away state, they doubtless look back upon those
golden days at Liberty Hall; those law lectures and
Shakespearean readings, in which Mr. Stephens
would throw such a flood of light upon “the text”
as gave them a rare insight into the workings of
the genius that could evolve such characters as
Hamlet or King Lear, Antonio or Shylock.
The writer begged for the privilege of hearing
Mr. Stephens in one of his readings, but he de
clined, saying they were only for the edification of
his students, and thus he was deprived of a rare
treat.
On the afternoon of the day I arrived at Liberty
Hall, I was sitting with Mr. Stephens in his cham
ber, for in this one room he lived, when I heard
a heavy step in the library, and a premonitory
growl from old Puck, Mr. Stephens’ pet dog, an
nounced the approach of a visitor. Presently the
burly form and shining black face of a negro of
giant proportions filled the dorway leading into the
library; down upon the floor was thrown an old
wool hat, and a deep voice, from a cavernous
mouth, said, “Sarvent, Mars Aleck, how is you to
day, Sar?” The visitor was the village black
smith and Mr. Stephens greeted him with a familiar
cordiality that proclaimed them good friends.
“Come in! Come in! I have sent for you and
need your help.”
“Why, Mars Aleck! What can I do for you?
Anything I can do to serve you will give me great
pleasure, Sar.” “Well, I want you to open that
safe in my library, there are important papers in
there, I must have soon, and the lock is so rusty
the key will not turn. Cut into it with a cold
chisel if you cannot open it any other way.”
“All right, Mars Aleck, I will examine it this
arternoon, and tomorrow mornin’ will open it for
you. Good arternoon, Sar.”
The next morning as I sat and listened to Mr.
Stephens as he gave me a resume of the accurate
political situation then existing in Georgia as the
people were striving to throw off the Bullock yoke,
our village blacksmith again thrust his good-hu-
By WM. LAURIE HILL.
mored- phiz within the door with another, “Sar
vant, Mars Aleck,” adding, “the safe is open,
Sar.”
“Open! You don’t tell me! How did you open
it?”
“Well, sar, I put some ile in the lock, Sar, and
let the key soak in ile all night, and this mornin’
I just unlocked it.”
“Well! well! You are a friend in need!” And
Mr. Stephens reaching into his coat pocket, pro
duced a large leather wallet with a flap, and, open
ing it, produced a crisp five-dollar greenback, say
ing:
“Will this pay you for your trouble?”
“Now, Mars Aleck, that is too much, it wan’t
a whole hour’s work!”
“Never mind about that, you did what I could
not do, and talent and skill should be rewarded;
if that is not enough, I will give you more.”
“That’s a plenty, Mars Aleck, the greatest plen
ty. Aon always would have your own way, Mars
Aleck. Sarvent, Sar.” And picking up his old
wool hat our blacksmith made his exit, wearing a
broad smile.
I was thinking of leaving the hospitable shelter
of Liberty Hall by the early train, when “mine
host” insisted that I should not do so, saying:
“Don’t go this morning. General Toombs .will
pass here on his way to Warren Court, and he al
ways lunches with me. Stay at least until the
noon train, for you must meet Toombs, and hear him
talk.”
To be asked to meet two of Georgia’s greatest
men, and to listen to them discuss the issues of the
day, needed no pursuasion, and I gladly availed
myself of so favorable an opportunity.
About eleven o’clock the train arrived, and soon
General Toombs was seen walking up the path to
Liberty Hall, and old Harry was not slow in ush
ering him into the presence of his master. It was
then I saw two giants meet—the one colossal in
brain and stature, the other all mind with almost
no impediment in the way of a body. The greeting
of Mr. Toombs was cheery and hearty. 'How do
you do, Aleck? Getting better, I hope. You must
get out of this room and stir about among the peo
ple, as I do.”
“Ah, Toombs, ’tis easy for you, but that farm
gate nearly crushed the life out of me, and I am
getting better very slowly.”
“Well, brace up! And you will soon be better.
By the way, Aleck, I saw that man we won that
suit for—the other day—and told him I thought
it about time he was paying some fees.”
“Well! What did he say, Toombs?”
“Why, he paid me one thousand dollars on ac
count, and I suppose we had as well divide as we
go along,” and General Toombs produced another
one of those large leather wallets, well packed with
money, and, counting out five one hundred doller
greenbacks, he passed them across the table to Mr.
Stephens, who fishing into the pile of paper, pam
phlets and stationery before him, drew out a little
piece of paper not larger than his three fingers,
wrote a receipt, and, passing it over, thus closed
the transaction.
Years have passed since that day at Liberty
Hall, and the sage who presided so long there as
master, and his distinguished guest, have finished
their course, and now dwell in the spirit world.
Their deeds live today, and we might well take
the characters of these men, and blend them into
one of those composite pictures that should stand
for all that there is in a true statesman and pa
triot. Mr. Stephens probably did more for the edu
cation of the rising generation than any man in
Georgia and did not seek to profit personally there
by. Old Liberty Hall is today being used for the
Stephens High School, ani nstitution that should
be a seat of learning worthy the memory and name
of Alexander H. Stephens. Miss Lola Lou Smith,
the able principal of this institution, is anxious to
build up a college here that shall stand for all that
is high and ennobling in the way of education and
The Golden Age for November 22, 1906.
if the frends of Mr. Stephens all over Georgia will
sustain her, the work will be well done. This insti
tution will do more to keep green the memory of
this great man than monuments of brass or marble
that will crumble with the passing of the ages.
“Weed well his grave,
Ye men of goodness,
For he was your fellow.”
Atlanta, Ga.
Funeral Financiering.
The general ticket agent for the Southern rail
road at Atlanta, Ga., has a colored man named Joe
in his employ. Joe would probably make his mark
as a financier. One day recently he called up the
ticket agent by ’phone, and the following conver
sation ensued:
“Hello, hello! Do you know me?”
“No. Who are you?”
“Why, this is Joe.”
“Joe? Joe who?”
“Joe what works for you.”
“Well, Joe, what do you want?”
“I want to know what it will cost to bring a
corpse from Macon to Atlanta and back.”
“What do you mean?” asked the puzzled agent.
“Mell,” replied Joe, “you see my brother Jim
he lives in Macon, and he died last night, and I
have a mother and seven brothers and sisters de
pending on me. I’ve been tryin’ to figure if it
will be cheaper to bring Jim here to see them or to
take them there to see him.”—New York Press.
She Was Worried.
Some Oklahoma people here were low in their
minds today about an outrage or two perpetrated
on that territory by the Statehood bill. One of
them was making quite a fuss about it, claiming
things would be all wrong when the territory be
comes a State.
“Reminds me,” said Raconteur Oulahan, “of
a thing that happened in my school days. We
uesd to have a lecture every Friday afternoon, and
one day the lecturer was a geological sharp and
chose Niagara Falls for his topic.
“He told us all about the geological formation
of the falls, described the different periods that
could be traced in the gorge, and then went on to
say that the falls were slowly wearing back toward
Buffalo, and that in the course of some 200,000
years they would have worn back to Erie, Pa., and
that town would be left high and dry. Just then
one of the girls in the class began to sob wildly.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked the teacher in alarm.
“ ‘Oh,’ she wailed, ‘l’ve got a sister living in
Erie.’ ” —New York World.
Goldsmith Revived.
A company was playing “She Stoops to Con
quer” in a small Western town last winter, when
a man without any money, wishing to see the show,
stepped up to the box office and said:
“Pass mo in, please.”
The box office man gave a loud, harsh laugh.
“Pass you in, what for?” he asked.
The applicant drew himself up and answered
haughtily:
“What for? Why, because I am Oliver Gold
smith, author of the play!”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir!” replied the other
in a shocked voice, as he hurriedly wrote out an or
der for a box.—Argonaut.
Gold Crown.
Visiting Superintendent (to Sunday school) —
“And now, my little friends, if you do all these
things, some day you will wear a gold crown; yes,
each one of you shall wear a gold crown.”
Little Chap (on front seat) —“My fader wears
one now.”
Superintendent (remonstratingly)—“Oh, no!”
Little Chap—“ Yes he does. He wears one on
his toof.”—Exchange.
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