New Orleans Times, Nov. 28, 1874
"DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN"
During the great yellow fever epidemic of 1853, Mr. William Hall, then connected with the Crescent, produced a most brilliant pen picture entitled as above. This graphic description of scenes in our cemeteries, when the population of the city was diminishing under the stern behests of that Saffron Scourge at the rate of three hundred or so a day, was accepted by the world as the work of an artist. It was copied into every prominent paper printed in English, and was translated and reproduced in a dozen continental languages. Mr. Hall then gave promise to be one of the most brilliant of our New Orleans journalists; but he had a weakness for the cup which inebriates, and that proved the great impediment in his path.
About this time he married a lady who had influential relatives in Washington. With her, he removed to the Federal city and obtained an important situation in the Land Office, where for several years his services were highly appreciated. After the war broke out, he was too pronounced a Southerner to retain his place and for months was imprisoned as a rebel. Eventually, through the influence of friends, his release was effected, and he sought refuge within the Confederate lines, where his experiences partook of the wilds of romance, rather than the sober varieties of history.
In 1866 he found his way back unto this city, and subsequently obtained employment in the Times and other papers as a reporter. Hope, however, was always telling him flattering tales, and the wildest of them was a scheme to convert the whole delta of the lower Mississippi into a ramie garden and make our people prosperous beyond their most sanguine expectations. These schemes materially interfered with his journalistic labors, and finally carried him into the still more delusive realms of insanity. His delusions however had something magnificent about them.
Though forced to be confined in a lunatic asylum, where all the appliances of necessities of life were of the plainest kind, he imagined himself the possessor of uncounted millions. No sovereign was so profuse in largess; no political philosopher had such grand dreams of our future. Even Shakespeare was not his equal in exhausting worlds and imagining new ones, and the most enthusiastic botanist that ever lived could not find such wonders as he among the grasses and weeds of his asylum yard.
At 6 o'clock yestermorn this week of a once brilliant man passed from the delusions of this world into the golden realities of the next, and at 4 o'clock last evening his poor remains were laid away for all time in one of the narrow houses of Girod street cemetery. The ceremonies were few and simple as those connected with the midnight burial of Sir John Moore, but when he knocks at the door of the supernal chamber he will find no lack of welcome on that account. No signs of ostentatious mourning were present at his funeral; there was, however, consciousness among the few attendants that a mortal, weak in some things, but grandly strong in others, had passed to his sempiternal heritage, where his faults would be mercifully judged.
Mr. Hall left a wife and son in Washington, a sister in Kentucky and a niece in Texas, when he last went 'down among the dead men.' "
"DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN"
During the great yellow fever epidemic of 1853, Mr. William Hall, then connected with the Crescent, produced a most brilliant pen picture entitled as above. This graphic description of scenes in our cemeteries, when the population of the city was diminishing under the stern behests of that Saffron Scourge at the rate of three hundred or so a day, was accepted by the world as the work of an artist. It was copied into every prominent paper printed in English, and was translated and reproduced in a dozen continental languages. Mr. Hall then gave promise to be one of the most brilliant of our New Orleans journalists; but he had a weakness for the cup which inebriates, and that proved the great impediment in his path.
About this time he married a lady who had influential relatives in Washington. With her, he removed to the Federal city and obtained an important situation in the Land Office, where for several years his services were highly appreciated. After the war broke out, he was too pronounced a Southerner to retain his place and for months was imprisoned as a rebel. Eventually, through the influence of friends, his release was effected, and he sought refuge within the Confederate lines, where his experiences partook of the wilds of romance, rather than the sober varieties of history.
In 1866 he found his way back unto this city, and subsequently obtained employment in the Times and other papers as a reporter. Hope, however, was always telling him flattering tales, and the wildest of them was a scheme to convert the whole delta of the lower Mississippi into a ramie garden and make our people prosperous beyond their most sanguine expectations. These schemes materially interfered with his journalistic labors, and finally carried him into the still more delusive realms of insanity. His delusions however had something magnificent about them.
Though forced to be confined in a lunatic asylum, where all the appliances of necessities of life were of the plainest kind, he imagined himself the possessor of uncounted millions. No sovereign was so profuse in largess; no political philosopher had such grand dreams of our future. Even Shakespeare was not his equal in exhausting worlds and imagining new ones, and the most enthusiastic botanist that ever lived could not find such wonders as he among the grasses and weeds of his asylum yard.
At 6 o'clock yestermorn this week of a once brilliant man passed from the delusions of this world into the golden realities of the next, and at 4 o'clock last evening his poor remains were laid away for all time in one of the narrow houses of Girod street cemetery. The ceremonies were few and simple as those connected with the midnight burial of Sir John Moore, but when he knocks at the door of the supernal chamber he will find no lack of welcome on that account. No signs of ostentatious mourning were present at his funeral; there was, however, consciousness among the few attendants that a mortal, weak in some things, but grandly strong in others, had passed to his sempiternal heritage, where his faults would be mercifully judged.
Mr. Hall left a wife and son in Washington, a sister in Kentucky and a niece in Texas, when he last went 'down among the dead men.' "
New Orleans Times, Nov. 28, 1874
"DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN"
During the great yellow fever epidemic of 1853, Mr. William Hall, then connected with the Crescent, produced a most brilliant pen picture entitled as above. This graphic description of scenes in our cemeteries, when the population of the city was diminishing under the stern behests of that Saffron Scourge at the rate of three hundred or so a day, was accepted by the world as the work of an artist. It was copied into every prominent paper printed in English, and was translated and reproduced in a dozen continental languages. Mr. Hall then gave promise to be one of the most brilliant of our New Orleans journalists; but he had a weakness for the cup which inebriates, and that proved the great impediment in his path.
About this time he married a lady who had influential relatives in Washington. With her, he removed to the Federal city and obtained an important situation in the Land Office, where for several years his services were highly appreciated. After the war broke out, he was too pronounced a Southerner to retain his place and for months was imprisoned as a rebel. Eventually, through the influence of friends, his release was effected, and he sought refuge within the Confederate lines, where his experiences partook of the wilds of romance, rather than the sober varieties of history.
In 1866 he found his way back unto this city, and subsequently obtained employment in the Times and other papers as a reporter. Hope, however, was always telling him flattering tales, and the wildest of them was a scheme to convert the whole delta of the lower Mississippi into a ramie garden and make our people prosperous beyond their most sanguine expectations. These schemes materially interfered with his journalistic labors, and finally carried him into the still more delusive realms of insanity. His delusions however had something magnificent about them.
Though forced to be confined in a lunatic asylum, where all the appliances of necessities of life were of the plainest kind, he imagined himself the possessor of uncounted millions. No sovereign was so profuse in largess; no political philosopher had such grand dreams of our future. Even Shakespeare was not his equal in exhausting worlds and imagining new ones, and the most enthusiastic botanist that ever lived could not find such wonders as he among the grasses and weeds of his asylum yard.
At 6 o'clock yestermorn this week of a once brilliant man passed from the delusions of this world into the golden realities of the next, and at 4 o'clock last evening his poor remains were laid away for all time in one of the narrow houses of Girod street cemetery. The ceremonies were few and simple as those connected with the midnight burial of Sir John Moore, but when he knocks at the door of the supernal chamber he will find no lack of welcome on that account. No signs of ostentatious mourning were present at his funeral; there was, however, consciousness among the few attendants that a mortal, weak in some things, but grandly strong in others, had passed to his sempiternal heritage, where his faults would be mercifully judged.
Mr. Hall left a wife and son in Washington, a sister in Kentucky and a niece in Texas, when he last went 'down among the dead men.' "
"DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN"
During the great yellow fever epidemic of 1853, Mr. William Hall, then connected with the Crescent, produced a most brilliant pen picture entitled as above. This graphic description of scenes in our cemeteries, when the population of the city was diminishing under the stern behests of that Saffron Scourge at the rate of three hundred or so a day, was accepted by the world as the work of an artist. It was copied into every prominent paper printed in English, and was translated and reproduced in a dozen continental languages. Mr. Hall then gave promise to be one of the most brilliant of our New Orleans journalists; but he had a weakness for the cup which inebriates, and that proved the great impediment in his path.
About this time he married a lady who had influential relatives in Washington. With her, he removed to the Federal city and obtained an important situation in the Land Office, where for several years his services were highly appreciated. After the war broke out, he was too pronounced a Southerner to retain his place and for months was imprisoned as a rebel. Eventually, through the influence of friends, his release was effected, and he sought refuge within the Confederate lines, where his experiences partook of the wilds of romance, rather than the sober varieties of history.
In 1866 he found his way back unto this city, and subsequently obtained employment in the Times and other papers as a reporter. Hope, however, was always telling him flattering tales, and the wildest of them was a scheme to convert the whole delta of the lower Mississippi into a ramie garden and make our people prosperous beyond their most sanguine expectations. These schemes materially interfered with his journalistic labors, and finally carried him into the still more delusive realms of insanity. His delusions however had something magnificent about them.
Though forced to be confined in a lunatic asylum, where all the appliances of necessities of life were of the plainest kind, he imagined himself the possessor of uncounted millions. No sovereign was so profuse in largess; no political philosopher had such grand dreams of our future. Even Shakespeare was not his equal in exhausting worlds and imagining new ones, and the most enthusiastic botanist that ever lived could not find such wonders as he among the grasses and weeds of his asylum yard.
At 6 o'clock yestermorn this week of a once brilliant man passed from the delusions of this world into the golden realities of the next, and at 4 o'clock last evening his poor remains were laid away for all time in one of the narrow houses of Girod street cemetery. The ceremonies were few and simple as those connected with the midnight burial of Sir John Moore, but when he knocks at the door of the supernal chamber he will find no lack of welcome on that account. No signs of ostentatious mourning were present at his funeral; there was, however, consciousness among the few attendants that a mortal, weak in some things, but grandly strong in others, had passed to his sempiternal heritage, where his faults would be mercifully judged.
Mr. Hall left a wife and son in Washington, a sister in Kentucky and a niece in Texas, when he last went 'down among the dead men.' "
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