Newspaper Page Text
Ben Hill’s LaGrange Home, Where Many of His
*
Dramatic Life Passag'es Were Enacted
*
Ben Hill’s Historic Residence at LaGrange, Ga.
By FLORENCE L. TUCKER.
/
Writen for 285* Sunny Soul H
ENA TOR HILL had sev
eral homes—at LaGrange,
Athens and Atlanta, suc
cessively—but the home in
-L-nG^Tinge Is more nearly
associated with him as the
place which was his home
in early manhood and dur
ing the years that called
forth his greatest useful
ness. He left it in 1868.
sold it and removed to
Athens: but it has ever
since been spoken of as
“B«*n Hill's home,” and visitors to the
town are pointed with pride to the noble
old hou«e on the hill, which was the
abode of greatness, the scene of un
bounded hospitality and of home-life
whioil typified the ideal.
LaGrange is a beautiful old town—a
place of homes, built in the ante helium
style, large and joomy. with wide lawns,
flower yards and orehards. its shady
streets speaking the quiet which Is the
luxury of such as can live apart from
the stress and strain of busy marts, and
that home life, the realisation of which
is the sum of earthly content. Just the
place that a man of Mr. Hill’s mold
would choose to live in—a spot where
thought might have untrammeled growth
and play, yet environed by that which
makes life sweetest, the society of friends
and neighbors.
And it was eminently fitting that the
site he selected should be somewhat re
moved and elevated above these, and the
dwelling he erected finer and grander,
just as th*^ strength of his Intellect and
character lifted him above other men,
and the temple where dwelt his soul was
Confederate Monument in LaGrange,
the Home of Ben Hill.
higher and grander than the tabernacles
of smaller souls.
THE RAVAGES OF TIME.
Going over the place and remembering
thf* princely prodigality with which it
was kept up. it is melancholy now to
mark the ravages of time and neglect.
Originally it comprised over one thou
sand acres, rolling away to the purpling
hills, and affording from the “court.”
as the flat roof was called, a panorama
of exceeding beauty, look In what di
rection you would. At the rear were
the slave quarters, and on the left the
vegetable gardens, while from the house,
surrounded by magnolias and borders of
box wood and old-fashioned shrub? and
plants, granite walks led down through
the grove of natural growth to the mas
sive iron gates which guarded the en
trance. This gateway was erected at a
cost of $1,000, and Mr. Hill expended
upwards of $50,000 in building the house
and beautifying the grounds
Remembering its magnificence- -it was
one of the finest places in Georgia—and
how associated it was in the history of
the state, its devastation is peculiarly
melancholr. For private reasons the
present owner, whose father purchased
from Mr. Hill, has disposed of the ’and
by pieoemeal—a .street has been run
through the grounds between the gate
and the house, and the land divided up
into lots. The house will be sold also.
Sadly in need of repair, it is still a
good and a very handsomp house, and
with the exception of the kitchen,
which, like every other southern kitchen
of that day, was in the yard (that in
present us e is built onto the house), is
just as Mr. Hill occupied it, even to
the magnificent gilt cornices above the
windows and the very beautiful mural
decorations which arc said to l* ave been
the finest that the fashion of the day
afforded. Built in colonial style, with
immense halls running the length of the
house, and the deep portico witn Cor
inthian columns extending - around its
three sides, it presented an appearance
well representative of the ample plenti-
tude of its time, and the generosity of
the owner.
The rooms on the first and second
Entrance to Ben Hill’s Home at LaGrange.—The Gates Cost One Thousand Dollars.
floors are of extraordinary dimensions,
with very high ceiling; above is a garret,
and still above this the “court” the
flat roof which was enclosed with a
handsome balustrade, only a small por
tion of which remains, and which was
used like the flat roofs of warmer
countries.
The paTlor and dining room, opening
into each other were spacious and very
handsome; opposite the parlor was the
library and adjoining this Mr. Hill’s
bedroom. The handsomest of furniture
and hangings were used and an ex-
travagence of hospitality displayed in
the conduct of the establishment which
old citizens Uk e still to recall.
HIS ESTIMATE OF MONEY.
Mr. Hill accumulated wealth with
the hand of a magician, and lavished it
l|ke a prince. During the fourteen
years prior to the war it is estimated
that his law practice brought him half
a. million dollars, lind money to him
represented only the comfort and pleas
ure it could afford his family and
friends. His house was kept filled witn
guests and the entertainment afforded
them was rich as it was gracious and
generous. He was the most indulgent
of parents, permitting no wish of his
unbounded affection could compos to
go ungratified; and enjoying to the full
a domestic felicity the admiration of all
whos e privilege it was to be admitted
here. And they were many, for the
hospitality of the place, like its mas
ter’s love for humanity, embraced the
world.
It was a Christian household, too.
Mr. Hill brought into his own houre
the same reigious observances and
spiritual atmosphere which had been
part of the humbler home where had
been implanted in his breast the seeds
whole life. Here in the fear of Goi
of all those noble virtues which were
a panoply of strength throughout his
and in . grateful devotion to the giver
of so' many good gifts, he permitted
himself their full enjoyment. Writing
on on 3 occasion from Richmond (when
ho was senator of the . confederate
states) to his w T ife he said: “A caged
eagle does not look up Into the clear
blue sky and long for freedom to soar
heavenward more than I long for home,
and wife, and children.”
And it was from this happy spot he
watched the clouds of war gather till
in murk and darkness the sun of his hope
was obscured, and under the dead weight
of the Inevitable he w<os forced to write:
“Unless our grievances are fully redress
ed, and we can have satisfactory guar
antees that they will not be repeated, I
will aid in the necessity of disunion, but
I shall dissolve this union as I would
bury a benefactor—in sorrow of heart.”
And after the failure and disappointment
of his best endeavor at the convention at
Milledgeville, when, comprehending the
magnitude of the issue with a far-sight
edness- shared by but few, his most elo
quent and impassioned appeals for the
preservation of the union met with such
misunderstanding that even while cloist-
’ ered in his room in the town, wrapped in
darkness, and in grief, over the impend
ing future, the rash and misguided peo
ple without were burning him in effigy in
the street,—when he left the capital. It
was to return to his dear home so soon
to be shrouded in the pall which wrap
ped the south—but, strangely enough, un
touched by hand or foot of Invader.
With what heaviness of heart,' In what
gloom of unerring prophecy, he made
that homeward journey none may say,
but “no son,’* as has been said of him,
“driven by fortunes he could not control,
from the parental roof, ever left that
roof with sadder parting than he left
the union.” Yet what patriotism sur
passed his. even as he assumed the du
ties of Confederate States senator, and
became “the right arm” of Davis! Ke
was “to civil affairs what Lee was to the
military,” and President Davis himself
said in speaking of him: “I could place
my hand upon his shoulder, and feel that
its foundation was as firm as rock.”
TRUE TO CONVICTIONS.
If Mr. Hill was the last Willingly to
ieave the union, he was also the last to
T:ovnsel unconditional surrender. His
speech made in La Grange on March II,
CONTINUED ON (LAST PAGE.
9.+9*.9—9—9—9- 9—9—9——9-+9-+-9-*-9-+-9-*-9-+9‘+9-+-9‘+9-+9-—9-++
f BUD LEACH, Typical Western Ward Politician Eighth Z ihXZai sen es |
♦ ?
9—'9-*-9-~9-*9-+Q'**‘+9-+9-*-9-+9'+ ®*•*9*•*9 “+ m 9'* m 9 9S*®*S
ID you see that gentleman
who just drove by and
nodded to me? Well. I
helped to elect ’im United
States senator. He wouldn't
’a* been that if it hadn't
been for me.
“How? Well, he was a
young lawyer. Got the
nomination for the legisla
ture. He comes to me af
ter that and says he, ‘Bud,
do w’hat you kin for me.’
I did. Run 'im seventy-
five votes ahead of his ticket in Hiy pre-
clnek. Election was awfully close, and
that’s the vote he slipped in by. He
made a hit in, the legislature, the boss
picked *im up. sent *im to congress, and,
to break a deadlock in the senate fight,
they compromised on ’im. The senator
ain’t forgot it. and when he kin do me a
favor he will. But they ain’t all like ’im.
Many forgits what you done for ’em. I
tell vo|. few people knows what hustlin’
you've got to do all year rouni to keep
the voters in line, so's to have 'em vote
all right on election day. The big poli
ticians don’t know what you’ve got to
go through with, and don’t appreciate it.
If my old trade paid livin’ w*ages I’d go
back to it.”
The speaker. Bud Leach, was standing
at the curbstone in front of a polling
booth in a laige western city on the day
of a hotly contested election. The pre
cinct polled 400 to 5o6 votes, and was
one of a number of precincts in that
ward each polling a like vote. The pre
cinct population w*as a mixed one—Ger
man. Irish. American and negro, with
the German element predominating. In
this district the tenement houses adjoined
the mansions in places, with the negro
shanties in the rear. There was a scat
tering of saloons and saloon attachments
* to groceries. The religious element could
worship in a Catholic. Episcopal. Baptist
or Methodist church. Bud knew every one
that came along to vote: knew his poli
tics. his religion, his family, his busi
ness and so forth, stopped quite a num
ber and chatted in a social way. Here
and there he asked some democrat to
vot for some candidate on the republi
can ticket, and reminded others of their
promises so to do. The Rev. Mr. Jones
came from his rectory and passed into
the booth to cast his ballot. Some one
in the party said he heard that the cler
gyman artd his congregation would sup
port the fusion ticket. Bud knew better,
they were safe.
"Two years ago.”
thought we’d lose’m.
ticket was up then,
to voL it—couldft do nothin’ with ’im.
The congregation would have followed
said Bud. “we
The independent
Jones was goin’'
’im and he was goin’ to talk from th-3
pulpit. I goes to Bob May—you know
’im—the lawyer from this ward that’s
in the legislature. Asks him to see
Jones and se e what he kin do to git
’im In line. They has a long talk, and
Jones comes ’round all right. I gits
the word from Bob and starts out hot
footed to see the members of the church.
The preacher bein’ converted, the Al
mighty with Bud's help wasn’t goin’ to
see the flock go astray. They’re ali
right, they'll vote the republican ticket
straight, just as always does mine.”
I’p spoke on^ of the party: “You
didn’t support Jack Doyle when he ran
for judge, and he was on your ticket.”
Bu<* answered: “He wasn’t no repub
lican. He was agin’ us and with the
independents. give ’im the nomi
nation after that, so’s to knock ’im out
and teach the kickers a lesson. Gfve’m
some of the medicine they give us. Bid
Barnes passed the word down the line
and wc did it.”
Now. kill Barnes was the party boss
of the county. The party control was
a close corporation. He usually kept
them all guessing as to the makeup of
the ticket; and the delegates like Bud
would not. as a rule, know whom 10
vote for until the morning of the con
vention. Bill had a pheasant way of
saving the electors in the party lots
of worry in trying to arrive at a choice
of suitable candidates. Don’t you see it
would be a great deal easier for ono
man. after consultation with a numoer
of others, to sit down and select the
condidates, so that the ticket would
contain representatives of all classes
and all interests? Four hundred to 500
delegates in an open convention in the
face of a hot and bitter contest would
b<“ apt to be carried away and not re
gard the ticket as a whole, so as to
draw all interests to its support by rea
son of the representation thereon. But
then, there are always unreasonable
people, and there were in this case.
Some rebelled—thev could not appre
ciate a kindness of that character-
started independent movements, or fus
ed with the democrats.
Bud was edging away, but the crowd
would not have it. and the person that
had last spoken to Bud insisted. “But it
was a mistake to'beat Doyle. We are al
ways crying out. ‘Stand by the nominees
of your party.’ and yet, when wc had a
chance to show how to do it and set the
example of loyalty, you turn around and
defeat your own party candidate. We
might have healed the breach; but now
the discontented republicans have again
1 used with the democrats, and they may
lead the people astray.”
Bud got angry. “Who’s the repubs that’s
in this thing? Why, a lot of old stiffs’
that’s been turned down—some of ’em
want to hold office all their life, others
the people's beaten time and again. All
they wants is to git us out, and they git
in. ‘Reform and lower taxe^ is the cry
of the fusionists. TJ»ey don’t say we’re
stealin’ from the public treasury, but that
we spends too much money to run the
city. First thing they does when they gets
in power—and they’ve been in a year now
—they cuts down the poor street laborers
wages, don't use enough money to clean
streets and fix ’em. don’t take up gar
bage and ashes often enough, and the
town’s lookin’ like a hogpen, and then
they cries they’ve lowered the taxes.
Thej* ain’t a-gion’ to fool the people much
longer. Them fusionists will git a mon
grel breed; their litter won’t live long.
“I ain’t got nothin' again’ Jack Doyle
personally. Me and ’im was born and
raised together—lived in the same house
and went tc school together. I’ve got a
boy at home named after 'im. Jack
Doyle’* got the edjication. He had the
chance. 1 didn’t. But he was again’ us and
we went ag’in ’im. He tried to throw us
down and we thrown *Im.”
Up «poke one of the party and said the
anti-foreign members were makin’ a hard
tight in the precinct.
“They're fools,” said Bud; ‘all the mem
bers round here are republicans and are
only creatin’ ill feelin’s and makin’ it
hard to git Demmies to vote for republi
cans. You don’t hear me holler about re
ligion—I knows better. I ain’t got no re
ligion, and ain’t agin’ none. If I kin work
anybody on the quiet and git ’im my way
of votin’ I appear® to agree with 'in*
when he starts talkin’ religion to me. If
I s got any religion it’s politics.
“What the Anti-Foreigns is workin’
ag’in’ more than anybody 9 else is ag’in’
the election of Jim McGinnis for magis-
tiate on our ticket. Well, he's an
Iriph republican. And those Anti-For-
eigns are pluggin’ ag’in’ ’im. That’s
where they’ll git left. Them of ’is re
ligion ain’t sayin’ anythin’. But they
votes for McGinnis—republican that Mc
Ginnis is—just because the Anti-Forelgns
is attackin' 'im on account of his relig
ion. It goes agin’ the grain of some
of them old Irish democrats, but they’ll
stand by ’cause they think it's their
duty to. I tell you it keeps ’em stirred
up. teliin’ ’em about this play agin’ their
religion. It’s all done in a quiet way.
There ain’t no hollerin’ from the house
tops, but it’ll count all the more, and
you know it. And that same thing's
bein’ done all over the city.”
Just then a half doz**n Polish Tews
came up and asked Bud to Instruct them
how to vote. As they left, he said:
“The Pollacks is creepin* into this pre-
cinck. T filled my pockets full of candy
and peanuts primary night, and climbed
CONTINUED ON LAST PAGE.
norma hh*t