F CHAPTER XLIX Copse Hill: The Home of Paul H. Hayne OURTEEN miles from Augusta, on the line of the Georgia Railway, near Grovetown, where it occupies an isolated spot in the midst of the pine barrens, stands an odd-looking bungalow to which, with the adjacent area, has been given a name still fragrantly familiar to the world of letters-"Copse Hill." It was for many years the sylvan home of the Southern laureate, Paul H. Hayne. Though a native of Charleston, S. C., and a scion of one of the oldest families of the Palmetto State, Mr. Hayne came to Georgia at the close of the Civil War. In the bombardment of Charleston, his beautiful home was destroyed by fire, including his ample library and many precious heir-looms. With the few fragments which he saved from the wreck, he betook himself to this quiet retreat. His health was always fragile, and he hoped to find balm in the atmosphere of his adopted home. Here he resided with his family until his death. In this rudely constructed little cottage, many if not most, of his poems were written. From the woodland paths near by through which he loved to wander he caught his out-door inspirations; and here amid hardships and trials he struggled with disease and sang his songs until Copse Hill became a famous spot, "hallowed by the glorifying glamour of genius." There have been many descriptions of the home of Mr. Hayne, but none more vivid than the one which the poet himself gives in speaking of a visit made to him in the summer of 1866 by William Gilmore Simms. He calls it, "an extraordinary shanty which seemed to have been tossed by a supernatural pitchfork upon the top of the most desolate of hills, and there prompted by some devilish cantrip-slight to build itself into uncouth ugliness." The interior accommodations were not at variance with the external characteristics, for the poet adds2: "If memory serves me right, we had three mattresses and a cot, and for supplies a box of hardtack, two sides of bacon, and fourscore, more or less, of smoked herring. Of cooking utensils there were a frying-pan, a gridiron, with three bars, and a battered iron pot." Years afterward Maurice Thompson visited Hayne. The cottage had been somewhat improved by the deft hand of Mrs. Hayne, but it was still "an arid perch for a song-bird, this windy, frowsy, barren hill." The chairs, the table, the shelves, had been made of dry-goods boxes. In the main room, not only the walls but the ceiling overhead wore ornamentations made to add effect with pictures from illustrated journals. Hayne's writing desk, at which he stood to make his poems, had been a carpenters work bench. Says Dr. Edwin Mins3: "In this simple home-almost as crude as Thoreau's hut on Walden Pond-Hayne spent the remainder of his days, only once or twice going on a visit to his native city, and once as far as New England to see the poets with whom he had such intimate correspondence and to whom he had written some of his tenderest poems-at once the expression of his interest in poetic art and of his broad national spirit. Here he received visits from young poets to whom he extended advice and gave inspiration. Here also he exchanged letters with such far away English poets as Swinbourne and Tennyson. Perhaps no Southern poet ever carried on such an extensive correspondence with so many distinguished men 'Library of Southern Literature, Vol. V, p. 2269. Sketch of the poet by Edwin Mims, Atlanta, 1907. *Ibid, 2269. Ibid, 2269-2270. of letters." In 1882, the complete works of Mr. Hayne were issued from the press of D. Lothrop and Co., of Boston. Major Charles W. Hubner, of Atlanta, himself a poet of rare gifts, was an intimate friend of the noted laureate and was at his bedside during his last hours. He speaks feelingly of the childlike trust, of the sublime faith, of the beautiful resignation which characterized the pathetic scene of farewell. He also attended the funeral, in company with Charles C. Jones, Jr., and James R. Randall, kindred spirits and intimate friends of the deceased poet. Says Major Hubner, in speaking of the impressive obsequies:* "The whole city was in mourning. The people not only admired him as a poet but also loved him as a man whose life illustrated the best qualities of the chivalrous race from which he sprang, for his heart was constantly animated by a passionate and insistent love for the true, the good, and the beautiful. A very touching feature of the funeral day was the presence of several thousand children, who lined the streets as the sorrowful procession passed on its way to the cemetery. The presence of these children testified to their love for their distinguished friend and verified the sweet sentiment of one of his own lines: "The children loved him, so he sleeps in peace.'" As yet the grave of Mr. Hayne is unmarked by any memorial stone, though it is beautifully kept. In the possession of the Hayne Circle of Augusta there is now a fund for the erection of a monument to the lamented poet. Doubtless the members hope to increase the sum on hand. At any rate, the city of Augusta will not be long without a monument of the most substantial character to the silent laureate of the South. Mr. William H. Hayne, the poet's son, himself also a poet of reputation, in a letter to the author, writes thus in regard to Copse Hill. Says he: "It is much in *Representative Southern Poets, by Charles W. Hubner, New York and Washington, 1906. the condition in which my parents left it, except that I have not the means to keep it in ship-shape as a sailor would say. Most of my father's library is there, and I keep the place insured. Edmund, an old servant, is the only care-taker I have, and he shares my hope that I may never be compelled to let Copse Hill pass into other hands.""* *Letter written by Mr. Hayne to the author of this work. CHAPTER L Richard Henry Wilde: Augusta's Monument to the Author of the "Summer Rose." TH HOUGH neither Hayne nor Randall have yet been honored with civic monuments, there stands on Greene street, in the city of Augusta, a substantial shaft of marble bearing the name of another Georgia poet: Richard Henry Wilde. He was a member of C'ongress, an oraor of no mean distinction, an author whose work on Torquato Tasso, in two volumes, attracted wide attention, and a lawyer who possessed rare gifts as an advocate; but Mr. Wilde is today remembered chiefly by reason of a fragment which he composed in an idle mood: "My life is like the summer rose, That opens to the morning sky Is scattered on the ground to die. "My life is like the autumn leaf, That trembles in the moon's pale ray, |