village and court-house had been of recent selection, and Uncle Ned’s tavern was one of those peculiar buildings improvised for temporary purposes—­a log cabin, designated, in some parts of Georgia at that time, as a two-storied house, with both stories on the ground; in other words, a double-penned cabin with passage between.  Uncle Ned had made ample provision for the Bench and Bar.  One pen of his house was appropriated to their use.  There was a bed in each corner, and there were nine lawyers, including the judge.  The interstices between the cabin poles were open, but there was no window, and but one door, which had to be closed to avoid too close companionship with the dogs of the household.  It was June, and Georgia June weather, sultry, warm, and still, especially at night.  In the centre there stood a deal table of respectable dimensions, and this served the double purpose of dining-table and bed-place for one.  Uncle Ned was polite and exceedingly solicitous to please.  He had scoured the county for supplies; it was too new for poultry or eggs, but acorns abounded, and pigs were plenty.  They had never experienced want, and consequently were well-grown and fat.  Uncle Ned had found and secured one which weighed some two hundred pounds.  This he divided into halves longitudinally, and had barbecued the half intended for the use of the Bar and Bench.  At dinner, on Monday, it was introduced upon a large wooden tray as the centre substantial dish for the dinner of the day.  It was swimming in lard.  There were side-dishes of potatoes and cold meats, appellated in Georgia collards, with quantities of corn-bread, with two bowls of hash from the lungs and liver of the pig, all reeking with the fire and summer heat.  A scanty meal was soon made, but the tray and contents remained untouched.

The court continued three days, and was adjourned at noon of the fourth day, until the next term.  Each day the tray and contents were punctual in their attendance.  The depressed centre of the tray was a lake of molten lard, beneath which hid a majority of the pig.  After dinner of the last day, all were ready to leave.  When the meal was concluded, Dooly asked if all were done.  “Landlord,” said the Judge, “will you give us your attention?” Uncle Ned entered.  “Your will, Judge,” he asked.  “I wish you, sir, to discharge this hog on his own recognizance.  We do not want any bail for his appearance at the next term.”  The dinner concluded in a roar of laughter, in which Uncle Ned heartily joined.

Only one of the nine who assisted to organize that county, now remains in life.  There were four men there whose names are inscribed on the scroll of fame—­whose names their fellow-citizens have honored and perpetuated by giving them to counties:  Cobb, Dawson, Colquitt, and Dougherty.  Warner and Pierman died young.  I alone remain.  The children of most of them are now gray with years, and have seen their grandchildren.  The name of Dooly remains only a memory.