"Our conversation reverted now to past years. Allen spoke of his early friends among my relatives; of his whole career in Louisiana; of his wife, with tenderness,-[she had died in 1850], of her beauty and her love for him. His future was so uncertain-that he scarcly alluded to that— never with any hopefulness It was only in the past that he seemed to find repose of spirit. The present was too sad, the future too shadowy for any discussion of either

During this last visit, I never renewed my arguments against his quitting the country. I had already said and written all that I had to say on that subject

Besides, our minds were in such a confused state, we scarcely knew what any of us had to expect from the victorious party, or what would become of our whole people. So that in urging him not to leave Louisiana, I argued more from instinct, which revolted at anything like an abandonment of a post of duty, and from a temperament which always sought rather to advance to meet and defy danger, than to turn and avoid it, than from any well-grounded assurance or hope of security for him, or any one else. I felt more anxiety for his reputation, for his fame, than for his life and freedom. His natural instincts would have induced similar views; but his judgment and feelings were overpowered by the reasonings and entreaties of his friends.

HENRY TIMROD.

1829-1867.

HENRY TIMROD was born in Charleston, the son of William Henry Timrod, who was himself a poet, and who in his youth voluntarily apprenticed himself to a book-binder in order to have plenty of books to read. His son Henry,

University of State of Missouri, Columbia,Mo.

the "blue-eyed Harry" of the father's poem, studied law with the distinguished James Louis Petigru, but never practiced and soon gave it up to prepare himself for a teacher. He spent ten years as private tutor in families, writing at the same time. Some of his poems are found in the "Southern Literary Messenger" with the signature "Aglaüs."

His vacations were spent in Charleston, where he was one of the coterie of young writers whom William Gilmore Simms, like a literary Nestor, gathered about him in his hospitable home. His schoolmate, Paul Hamilton Hayne, was one of these, and their early friendship grew stronger with the passing years.

In 1860, Timrod removed to Columbia, published a volume of poems which were well received North and South, and undertook editorial work, Life seemed fair before him. But ill-health and the war which destroyed his property and blighted his career, soon darkened all his prospects, and after a brave struggle with poverty and sickness, he died of pneumonia.

His poems are singularly free from sadness and bitterness. They have been collected and published with a sketch of his life by his friend, Paul Hamilton Hayne.

WORKS.

Poems.*

Prose Articles in the "South Carolinian."

Of all our poets none stands higher than Henry Timrod. His singing is true and musical, and his thoughts are pure and noble. A tardy recognition seems at last coming to bless his memory, and his poems are in demand. One copy of his little volume recently commanded the price of ten dollars.

The following extracts are made by permission of Mr. E. J. Hale, formerly of E. J. Hale & Son.

SONNET.

Life ever seems as from its present site
It aimed to lure us. Mountains of the past
It melts, with all their crags and caverns vast,
Into a purple cloud! Across the night
Which hides what is to be, it shoots a light
All rosy with the yet unrisen dawn.

Not the near daisies, but yon distant height
Attracts us, lying on this emerald lawn.
And always, be the landscape what it may--
Blue, misty hill, or sweep of glimmering plain-
It is the eye's endeavor still to gain

The fine, faint limit of the bounding day.
God, haply, in this mystic mode, would fain
Hint of a happier home, far, far away!

ENGLISH KATIE.

(From Katie.)

It may be through some foreign grace,
And unfamiliar charm of face;

It may be that across the foam

Which bore her from her childhood's home,
By some strange spell, my Katie brought,
Along with English creeds and thought-
Entangled in her golden hair-

Some English sunshine, warmth, and air!

I cannot tell,-but here to-day,

A thousand billowy leagues away

From that green isle whose twilight skies
No darker are than Katie's eyes,

She seems to me, go where she will,
An English girl in England still!

I meet her on the dusty street,
And daisies spring about her feet;
Or, touched to life beneath her tread,
An English cowslip lifts its head;
And, as to do her grace,. rise up
The primrose and the buttercup!

I roam with her through fields of cane,
And seem to stroll an English lane,
Which, white with blossoms of the May,
Spreads its green carpet in her way!
As fancy wills, the path beneath
Is golden gorse, or purple heath:
And now we hear in woodlands dim
Their unarticulated hymn,

Now walk through rippling waves of wheat,
Now sink in mats of clover sweet,

Or see before us from the lawn
The lark go up to greet the dawn!
All birds that love the English sky
Throng round my path when she is by:
The blackbird from a neighboring thorn
With music brims the cup of morn,

And in a thick, melodious rain
The mavis pours her mellow strain!
But only when my Katie's voice

Makes all the listening woods rejoice,

I hear-with cheeks that flush and pale-
The passion of the nightingale!

Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death!

In the false aspect of a ruthless foe,

Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath,

O gentle Power! who could have wronged thee so?
Thou rather should'st be crowned with fadeless flowers,

Of lasting fragrance and celestial hue;

Or be thy couch amid funereal bowers,

But let the stars and sunlight sparkle through.

So, with these thoughts before us, we have fixed
And beautified, O Death! thy mansion here,
Where gloom and gladness-grave and garden-mixed,
Make it a place to love, and not to fear.