At twenty-five years of age he was sent, by an almost unanimous vote, to the Legislature from his county.  He came with an exaggerated reputation for talent, especially for oratorical talent, and many of his friends feared he would not be able to sustain it in that body, where there were many of age and experience, with characters already long established for learning and eloquence, and also many young men from different parts of the State, who, like himself, had already won fame for high talent.  Among these was Robert Augustus Bell, in sight of whose grave I write these lines.  He passed away in early life, but Georgia never produced a brighter or a nobler spirit.  There were also Charles Dougherty, (who died young, but not without making his mark,) William Law, Hopkins Holsey, and others, who have honored themselves and the State by eminent services on the Bench and at the Bar, and in the councils of their native and other States to which many of them emigrated.

At the very opening of the session, Lumpkin took position with the first on the floor of the House of Representatives.  His first speech was one of thrilling eloquence, and, before its conclusion, had emptied the Senate chamber; many of its oldest and most talented members crowding about him, and listening with delight.

The memory of that day revives with the freshness of yesterday.  Two or three only remain with me now, to recall the delight with which all hearts were filled who acted, politically, with Lumpkins, as the beautiful and cogent sentences thrilled from his lips, with a trembling fervor, which came from an excitement born of the heart, and which went to the heart.  Bell, Brailsford, Dougherty, Rumbert, and Baxter, who, with myself, grouped near him, all are in the grave, save only I, and, standing a few weeks since by the fresh mould that covers Joseph H. Lumpkin, and yesterday by the grave of Bell, my mind wandered back to the old State House, and to those who were with me there.  Separated for more than forty years from the home of my birth, being with, and becoming a part of another people—­a noble, generous, and gallant people—­and almost forgetting my mother tongue, these had faded away almost into forgetfulness; but, tottering with years, and full of sorrows, I am here amid the scenes made lovely and memorable by their presence, when we were all young and hopeful.  They come back to me, and now, while I write, it seems their spirits float in the air of my chamber, and smile at me.  Why is my summons delayed so long?  All that made life lovely is gone—­youth, fortune, and household gods.  My children are in bloody graves—­she who bore them preceded them to eternity; yet I live on, and sigh, and remember, while imagination peoples with the past the scenes about me.  The faces, the jest, and merry laugh come again; I see and hear them again.  Oblivion veils away the interval of forty-five years, and all is as it was.  Oh, could the illusion last till death shall make it truth!  It is, I feel, but a foretaste of the reality soon to be, when hearts with hearts shall group again, and the reunion of sundered ties be eternal.