Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History

Book

Open Original Text

tleman begged him to accept $5,000, in gold, _as a
loan_, since he refused it as a gift. Allen accepted five hundred.
With this small amount, his ambulance and riding-horses, he started to
Mexico. His journey through Texas was a complete ovation, instead of a
hegira. Everybody, rich and poor, vied with each other 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 suffer 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,
 Ah-a-a-a--
 Going away to leave you,
 Ah-a-a-a--
 Going away to-morrow,
 Ah-a-a-a--
 Going away to-morrow,
 Ah-a-a-a--
 Never more to see you,
 Ah-a-a-a--
 Never more to see you,
 Ah a-a-a."

[Music: Go-ing a-way, Go-ing a-way,
 Going a-way to leave you, Ah-a-a-a.
 Going a-way to leave you, Ah-a-a.]

This had always been an affecting strain to me; it was doubly so under
the existing circumstances. The song died mournfully away. We drove on
in silence for a few moments. Gov. Allen roused himself, with a sigh:
"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 scarcely 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.

FOOTNOTE:

[26] By permission of J. A. Gresham, New Orleans.

HENRY TIMROD.

~1829=1867.~

[Illustration: ~University of State of Missouri, Columbia, Mo.~]

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, 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.[27]
 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.

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 f

Previous Next