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in offering him attention and the most eager hospitality. The roof was deemed honored that sheltered his head for the night. He stopped at Crockett, to say “goodbye.”

This conversation occurred whilst we were returning from a visit to Gov. Moore's family. I had driven over to their cottage in a buggy, to invite them to join us at dinner. Allen had accompanied me. These exiles were personal friends of mine. I suffered in parting with them: for some I susfer still—for those who are still absent and still living! Everything was very quiet and still, nothing audible but the low murmur of our voices, when suddenly arose from the prairie beyond us, one of the beautiful, plaintive, cattle or "salt" songs of Texas. These wild simple melodies had a great attraction for me. I would often check my horse on the prairies, and keep him motionless for a half-hour, listening to these sweet, melancholy strains. Like all cattle-calls, they are chiefly minor. I thought them quite as singular and beautiful as the Swiss Ranz des Vaches, or the Swedish cattle-calls. They consisted of a few chanted words, with a cadence and a long yodl. Sometimes the yodling was aided by what the Texan boys called “quills”-two or more pipes made of reed-cane (arundinaria macrosperma). This made a sort of limited syrinx, which gave wonderful softness and flute-like clearness to the prolonged tones of the voice, as it was breathed into them. The boy sang one of his saddest “calls.” I looked quickly to see if Gov. Allen had noticed the melancholy words and mournful air. I saw he had. He ceased talking, and his face was very grave. The boy sang :

“Going away to leave you,


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Going a way to leave you, Ah This had always been an affecting strain to me; it was doubly so under the existing circumstances. died mournfully away.

The song

We drove on in silence for a few moments. Gov. Allen roused himself, with a sigh :

6. That boy's song is very sad.”

“Yes, but he sings it very frequently. He knows nothing about you. It is neither a prophecy nor intended to be sympathetic,-you need not make special application of it!”

“No; but it may prove a strange coincidence.”

“You shan't say that. I won't listen to such a thought. You'll only spend a pleasant summer travelling in Mexico. We'll see you at the opera in New Orleans, next winter.”

“I hope so.”

* 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 thatnever 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 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,

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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.



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. of his little volume recently commanded the price of ten dollars.

One copy

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

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