The Poems of Henry Timrod | Page 6

the stammering speech; for in
society he was the shyest and most undemonstrative of men. To a
single friend whom he trusted, he would pour out his inmost heart; but
let two or three be gathered together, above all, introduce a stranger,
and he instantly became a quiet, unobtrusive listener,
though never a
moody or uncongenial one!
"Among men of letters, he was always esteemed as a most sympathetic
companion; timid, reserved, unready, if taken by surprise, but highly
cultivated, and still more highly endowed.
"The key to his social character was to be found in the feminine
gentleness of his temperament. He shrank from noisy debate, and the
wordy clash of argument, as from a blow. It stunned and bewildered
him, and left him, in the m|^el|/ee, alike incapable of defense or attack.
And yet, when some burly protagonist would thrust himself too rudely
into the ring, and try to bear down opposition by sheer vehemence of
declamation, from the corner where he sat ensconced in unregarded
silence, HE WOULD SUDDENLY SLING OUT SOME SHARP,
SWIFT PEBBLE OF THOUGHT, which he had been slowly
rounding, and smite with an aim so keen and true as rarely failed to
bring down the boastful Anakim!"
In Charleston, as a first effort in life, for a brief period Timrod
attempted the law, but found that jealous mistress unsuited to his life
work, though he had all the opportunity afforded him in the office of
his friend, the Hon. J. L. Petigru, the great jurist. Leaving the bar, he
thenceforward devoted himself to literature and to his art.
Charleston to Timrod was home, and he always returned with kindling
spirit to the city of his love. There were all his happiest associations
and the delight of purest friendships, -- W. Gilmore Simms and Paul
Hayne, and the rest of the literary coterie that presided over "Russell's
Magazine", and Judge Bryan and Dr. Bruns (to whom Hayne dedicated

his edition of Timrod's poems), and others were of this glad
fellowship, and his social hours were bright in their intercourse and in

the cordial appreciation of his genius and the tender love they bore him.
These he never forgot, and returning after the ravage of war to his
impoverished and suffering city, he writes, in the last year of his young
life, "My eyes were blind to everything and everybody but a few old
friends."
Suited by endowment and prepared by special study for a professorship,
still all his efforts for the academic chair failed,
and, finally, he was
compelled to become a private teacher, an office the sacredness of
which he profoundly realized.
In his leisure hours he now gave
himself up to deeper study of nature, literature, and man. It was in these
few years of quiet retreat that he wrote the poems contained in the first
edition of his works, 1859-60, which, laden with all the poet's longing
to be heard, were little heeded in the first great shock of war. Indeed, in
such a storm, what shelter could a poet find? An ardent Carolinian,
devoted to his native State with an allegiance as to his country, he left
his books and study, and threw himself into the struggle, a volunteer in
the army. In the first years of the war he was in and near Charleston,
and wrote those memorable poems and martial lyrics: "Carolina", "A
Cry to Arms", "Charleston", "Ripley", "Ethnogenesis", and "The
Cotton Boll", which deeply stirred the heart of his State, and, indeed, of
the whole South. His was the voice of his people. Under its spell the
public response was quick, and promised largest honor and world-wide
fame for the poet. The project formed by some of the most eminent
men of the State, late in 1862, was to publish an illustrated and highly
embellished edition of his works in London. The war correspondent of
the "London Illustrated News", Vizitelly, himself an artist, promised
original illustrations, and the future seemed bright for the gratification
of his heart's desire, to be known and heard in the great literary centre
of the English-speaking world. But disappointment again was his lot.
Amid the increasing stress of the conflict, every public and private
energy in the South was absorbed in maintaining the ever weakening
struggle; and with all art and literature and learning our poet's hopes
were buried in the common grave of war;
not because he was not
loved and cherished, and his genius appreciated, but because a terrible
need was upon his people, and desperate issues were draining their
life-blood. Then he went to the front. Too weak for the field (for the

fatal weakness that finally sapped his life was then upon him), he was
compelled, under medical direction, to retire from the battle ranks, and
made a last desperate effort to serve the cause