script became separated, and General Toombs for the first time in his life is said to have been embarrassed. He had not read more than one-quarter of his speech when this complication was discovered and he was unable to find the missing sheets. Governor Jenkins, who was sitting on the stage, whispered to him: "Toombs, throw away your manuscript and go it on general principles.' The general took off his glasses, stuffed the mixed essay in his pocket and advanced to the front of the stage. He was received with a storm of applause from the crowd, who had relished his discomfiture and were delighted with the thought of an old-time talk from Toombs. For half an hour he made one of his eloquent and electric speeches, and when he sat down the audience screamed for more. No one except Toombs could have emerged so brilliantly from this awkward dilemma."

Though broken down in health, General Toombs attended the university commencement in the summer of 1885, but it proved to be his last. The end came on December 15, and the great Georgian rested in peace.

General Toombs used to say when provoked by inferior minds whose shallow wit annoyed him, that he wanted to conduct himself properly in this world so that when he reached heaven he could associate with Socrates and Shakspeare.

When he lay dying at his home in Washington some one at his bedside whom he charged to keep him posted upon the happenings of the day, told him that the Georgia Legislature was still sitting. Then the limits of the session were not fixed by law, as they are now, and fre

quently the session was protracted until late in the summer. General Toombs heard the announcement with pained surprise, and turning to his informant said in his feverish delirium, made doubly pathetic by his evident solicitude for the interests of the State:

"Send for Cromwell! Send for Cromwell!”

During this same illness he amusingly characterized the Prohibitionists as "men of small pints." He wandered repeatedly with Mr. Stephens in the retrospective illusions of his last moments, and just before passing away he.solemnly declared, with the light of eternity falling upon his white forehead, that there was nothing in his past life which he cared to efface. It was just the utterance which the listening ear of the great American public expected to catch from the bloodless lips of the dying Mirabeau: not the self-righteous boast of the complacent Pharisee, but the conscientious and calm avowal of the brave old patriot who, after his stormy life is over, at last surveys the tumult of the angry years from the mysterious border ranges of the unseen world, and who, feeling that his motives have been pure, whatever his mistakes, can invite the eternal sunbeams to probe his heart as he reaffirms his fidelity to principle amid the brightening dews of the celestial dawn.

CHAPTER XIV.

Judge Underwood, the Noted Wit.

W

ITHOUT undue favoritism, it may be said. that no family in Georgia has enjoyed greater reputation for Attic salt than the Underwoods. Judge William H. Underwood, who occupied the bench of the Western circuit from 1825 to 1828, and Judge John W. H. Underwood, jurist, Congressman and lawyer, were both noted wits, superior even in some respects to Judge John M. Dooly. It rarely happens that wit is found in what may be called the pure state. But the Underwoods possessed the genuine metal without any depreciating admixtures. The wit of both was perfectly sane and wholesome. It was not embittered by bilious indigestion nor puffed with self-praise. Still less was it in any sense the product of an erratic genius which craved or required artificial stimulants.

Tempting as it is to consider the Underwoods together, the present sketch must be restricted to the elder. Judge Garnett Andrews, who often touched elbows with Judge William H. Underwood in going the professional rounds during the earlier decades of the last century, has left among his literary effects an interesting appreciation of the witty jurist. Without quoting Judge Andrews liter

ally, he says that Judge Underwood, when he first came before the public, was inclined to stutter, and appeared to rather awkward advantage; but he adds that before Judge Underwood died he was not only one of the profoundest lawyers, but one of the most eloquent advocates in the State. He also makes the interesting observation that Judge Underwood's wit developed like his professional skill, by an evolutionary sort of process, and that he was much keener and brighter in his old age than when he first began to practice.

Coming through various avenues of tradition, testimony is all of one voice to the effect that no purer or better man ever adorned the Georgia bench than Judge William H. Underwood; and if his genial retorts ever occasioned any irritating unpleasantness they were certainly prompted by no ill-seasoned malice; and the pain has passed away with the hour while the laughter has rippled on down the years.

Judge Underwood was at one time arguing with great earnestness a point of law which was vital to his case, and had just commenced to read a citation from Blackstone when the judge interrupted him by saying that his mind was fully made up to decide the question adversely and he did not wish to hear from him any further. "May it please the court," said Judge Underwood, "you will surely allow me to finish. I am not citing authority to convince the court, but only to show what an ignoramus Blackstone must have been."

An opponent once accused the Judge of being a Federalist of the old John Adams brand. It nettled him somewhat and he replied testily:

"If I am a Federalist," said he, "then the two national parties are Federalists and fools, and I have never heard you accused of being a Federalist."

Judge Underwood was provoked with the people of Elbert county on account of some political issue on which they were not able to agree.

"There's an honest ignorance about the people of Elbert," said he, "which is really amusing."

It chanced that one of his old neighbors from Elbert heard of the remark, and, meeting him on the street soon afterwards, told him he ought to take it back.

"Well," returned the Judge, "I will take part of it back, and since the county voted for Buchanan I will take back the word 'honest.'"

He was too staunch a Whig to vote the Democratic ticket even in 1856.

After stopping all night with Chester Campbell at Madison, he drew out his pocketbook next morning to pay the bill.

"Do you think I really owe you three dollars for boarding me and my horse Cherokee for just one night?" he asked.

"Yes, Judge," said the landlord, "it is the usual rate.” "Well, Mr. Campbell," replied the judge, "if the poet who wrote 'Man wants but little here below, nor wants that little long' had stopped overnight with you he would have written, 'Man has but little here below, nor has that little long.""

But Judge Underwood promptly paid the bill. He had one of the finest horses in the country and he was more particular about his horse when he stopped at the differ