each cough sent a thrill of terror to my heart. The idea that he was to choke to death by a sudden rush of blood from the lungs haunted him like a spectre; no persuasions could induce him to believe that there was really no danger. His fears, alas! proved but too sure premonitions of the truth. On Wednesday morning (2d of October)

at two o'clock I was aroused to witness once more the life-stream flowing from his lips, while every instant respiration became more difficult. The hemorrhage, however, was soon checked, but the effect on his nervous system was fatal; he never rallied again. Doctors Gibbes and Talley spent hours by his bedside, endeavoring by every human means to arrest the progress of the disease; but pneumonic symptoms made their appearance, and hope was gone.

"On Friday morning Dr. Gibbes said, 'Mr. Timrod, I think it my duty to tell you that I can see no chance of your recovery.' Never shall I forget the fearfully startled expression of my brother's face at this announcement. After the doctor went he said to me,' And is this to be the end of all?- so soon, so soon! and I have achieved so little! I thought to have done so much. I had, just before my first attack, fallen into a strain of such pure and delicate fancies. I do think this winter I would have done more than I have ever done; yes, I should have written more purely and with a greater delicacy. And then I have loved you all so much. Oh, how can I leave you!' A little while after he said, 'Do you not think I could will to live?' adding with a smile, 'I might make an effort, like Mrs. Dombey, you know. And indeed so resolutely did he seem to combat with the powers of death, that the rest of that day (Friday) he appeared to grow stronger and the symptoms were more favorable; so much more so, in fact, that both physicians at night pronounced a change for the better. Captain Hugh Thompson sat up with him that night, I bearing him company. He begged us to talk, saying that he liked to hear our voices; and in the morning observed, 'I have enjoyed this night; I slept when I wanted, and listened when I liked.'

"I must not omit to say that from the first serious hemorrhage his mind turned to religious subjects, and that the New Testament was always near his pillow. He would every now and then ask me to read a chapter to him from the Gospels, and to pray with him. On Saturday morning he seemed cheerful, and even sanguine; but in the afternoon the great pain in his side and the difficulty of breathing returned. He requested the subcutaneous injection of a portion of morphine; this had given him relief several times before. It was done, and he fell into a gentle sleep. I sat up with him again, intending to call his wife to take my place at two o'clock; but at two he awoke, and O God! that awakening; it was the commencement of the last struggle. The strongest convulsions shook his already wornout frame. To listen to those groans, those shrieks, was unutterable horror, was agony untold. For hours the struggle lasted, and then came for a space partial quiet and consciousness. He knew that he was dying. 'Oh,' I murmured to him, 'you will soon be at rest now.' 'Yes,' he said, in a tone so mournful that it seemed the wail of a lifetime of desolation-'yes, my sister, but love is sweeter than rest.'

"In the early hush of that Sabbath morning, he for the first time

commemorated the love and sufferings of our ascended Lord, the Holy Communion having been administered to him by a clergyman of our Church. Most strange, solemn, and sad was the sight to those who stood about his deathbed. He looked upon the struggle of life and death as if from the position of an earnest but outside observer. Once he said,' And so this is Death; the struggle has come at last. It is curious to watch it; it appears like two tides two tides advancing and retreating, these powers of Life and Death. Now the power of Death recedes; but wait, it will advance again triumphant.' Then with a look of eager yet hushed expectation he seemed to watch the conflict.

"Again he said, 'So this is death; how strange! Were I a metaphysician I would analyse it, but as it is I can only watch.'

"Words fail to describe the awful solemnity with which these dying words of the poet impressed all who heard him. Everybody was in tears. Once turning to me he asked, 'Do you remember that little poem of mine?—

'Somewhere on this earthly planet,

In the dust of flowers to be,
In the dewdrop and the sunshine,
Waits a solemn hour for me.'

"Yes,' I replied, 'and now that hour, which then seemed so far away, has come.'

"Often he would fold his arms and repeat two lines of his favorite hymn :

'Jesus, lover of my soul,' etc.

At every conscious interval his prayers to our atoning Lord were unceasing.

During the earlier part of the last night he slept for many hours. Awaking, he missed me, and asked that I should be called. On my going to him, he said, 'Well, Emily, I am really dying now, but my trust is in Christ.' Then quoting those lines of Milton, 'Death rides triumphant,' etc., he added, 'Oh, may I be able to say, Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.'

"An unquenchable thirst consumed him; nothing could allay that dreadful torture. He whispered, as I placed the water to his lips, 'Don't you remember that passage I once quoted from King John? I had always such a horror of quenchless thirst, and now I suffer it.' He alluded to the passage.

'And none of you will let the Winter come

To thrust his icy fingers in my maw.'

"Katie took my place by him at 5 o'clock (in the morning), and never again left his side. The last spoonful of water she gave him he could not swallow. “ 'Never mind,' he said, 'I shall soon drink of the river of eternal life.' Shortly after he slept peacefully in Christ. He died at the very hour which, years ago, he had predicted would be his death-hour. The whisper 'He is gone,' went forth as 'day purpled in the zenith.""

...

He was buried in Trinity Church Cemetery, Columbia; and there

he sleeps, undisturbed by the turmoil, strife, and contention of the world above him; and the beautiful flowers that he so loved spring in generous profusion over his grave, and the shady grove in which he took such delight gently sighs above him. In that humble grave, mouldering to dust, rests the heart

"Once pregnant with celestial fire."

As a further illustration of the general poetic style of Timrod, we give below one or two short poems, taken at random from the volume before us:

THE PAST.

To-day's most trivial act may hold the seed
Of future fruitfulness or future dearth;
Oh, cherish always every word and deed!
The simplest record of thyself hath worth.

If thou hast ever slighted one old thought,
Beware, lest grief enforce the truth at last:
The time must come wherein thou shalt be taught
The value and the beauty of the Past.

Not merely as a warner and a guide,

"A voice behind thee," sounding to the strife; But something never to be put aside,

A part and parcel of thy present life.

Not as a distant and a darkened sky,

Through which the stars peep and the moonbeams glow;
But a surrounding atmosphere, whereby

We live and breathe, sustained in pain or woe.

A shadowy land, where joy and sorrow kiss,
Each still to each corrective and relief;
Where dim delights are brightened into bliss,
And nothing wholly perishes but grief.

Ah me! not dies-no more than spirit dies ;
But in a change like death is closed with wings;

A serious angel, with entranced eyes,

Looking to far-off and celestial things.

What chaste and beautiful fancy in the following, and how deli cately portrayed!

Ah me the pathos of the thought!
I had not deemed she wanted aught;
Yet what a tenderer charm it wrought!

I know not if she marked the flame
That lit my cheek, but not from shame,
When one sweet image dimly came.

There was a murmur soft and low;
White folds of cambric parted slow,
And little fingers played with snow.

How far my fancy dared to stray,
A lover's reverence need not say:
Enough-the vision passed away.

Passed in a mist of happy tears;

While something in my tranced ears
Hummed, like the future in a seer's.

As a specimen of Timrod's editorial style we give the following, published in the South Carolinian :—

THE ALABAMA.

The bones of the noble Alabama, full five fathom under the English Channel, have, perchance, long ere this suffered a sea-change into something rich and strange." Precious jewels those bones would be if they could be fished up now; yet not, thank Heaven! of that sort of value which would make our Destructive Friends think it worth while to bring them into the Admiralty Courts. A Southron might possibly be permitted to treasure a shell-covered rib without fear of having it torn from him by the myrmidons of the law. And well might that Southronwell indeed might the citizen of any section of the United States, if he would consider the matter magnanimously-cherish any relic that could be recovered of this dead lioness of the seas. For what a wonderful history was hers! A single ship matched against one of the mightiest navies of the world; yet keeping the ocean in defiance of all pursuit, for, we forget how many, years. Flitting like a phantom across the waters, appearing at astonishingly short intervals in the most opposite quarters of the globe, we used to follow her track with something of that weird interest which was wont to thrill us in our boyhood when poring over a tale of the Dutchman of the Cape. At one time lost in the fogs of the northern Atlantic, at another popping up in the region of the trade-winds, scattering dismay among the clippers; and anon, far away in the direction of the dawn, where much more precious spoil might be reaped, or, if not reaped, consigned to that vast locker of which the mythic "Davy" of the sailor is said to keep the key-such were the reports that reached us from month to month of this almost ubiquitous vessel. Now we heard, perhaps, that in the neighborhood of the Golden Chersonesus, or under the rich shores of that "utmost Indian isle Toprobane," some homeward-bound Englishman had been startled by the dull boom of guns across the billows, while a red light upon the horizon informed him that the Alabama was illuminating those remote seas with the fires of Confederate revenge; and again a little later it was bruited from port to port that she was speeding across the main, haply amazing the gentle islanders of the Pacific with the gleam of her beautiful but unfamiliar flag, to complete the circuit of her awful mission with the destruction of a few treasureships of the Ophir of the West. The repeated achievement of the adventure has rendered the circumnavigation of the globe in these modern days a commonplace thing; but there was that in that errand upon which the Alabama was bound, which reinvested the voyage with the old romance, so that in accompanying the Southern cruiser upon her various paths, we used to experience a feeling somewhat resembling that imaginative one which Wordsworth has expressed in these deeptoned lines :

"Almost as it was when ships were rare,

From time to time, like pilgrims, here and there,
Crossing the waters, doubt and something dark,
Of the old sea some reverential fear

Were with us as we watched thee, noble bark."

The career of the Alabama was worthily closed. Challenged by a foe more powerful than herself, she sallied forth bravely to battle, and went down in the sight of the coast of one people and the ships of another, who each knew how to admire the valor which she had displayed. What a pity and what a wonder it is that the same generous appreciation of her glorious story, and its not less glorious end, is not shared in the country which enshrines the name of LAWRENCE! Who could believe, that did not know it, that we Southrons are expected by those who call us brethren to remember this gallant ship only as a corsair, and its venerated commander as a pirate!

But we have already extended this article, and must bring it to a close. For the facts herein stated we are indebted to the "Memoir" of Mr. Hayne. It is, in fact, the only sketch of Timrod's life we have ever seen; though Doctor Bruns has written and delivered a lecture on Timrod, containing a sketch of his life, which is highly spoken of by the editor of the "Memoir" above mentioned.

We

Timrod was undoubtedly a true poet. His imagination was clear, forcible, pure; his style simple but striking, and original, being, as Mr. Hayne says, "literally himself." To us, it is surprising that such merit has escaped public notice; and we feel that this is due alone to the harassing cares and multiform political distractions that have occupied the minds of our people for the last decade. But, now that political affairs are assuming a more promising form, and as our people are becoming more and more happy, free, and prosperous, we begin to see a more general appreciation of literature and art. hope that this imperfect sketch and brief notice of the life and works of Timrod may reach the eyes and appeal to the hearts of many, and awaken that interest and appreciation which his merits deserve. And we trust that the time is not far distant when the Southern public, at least, will come to know and to recognise the genius that so long struggled in their midst unknown and unhonored, and that his poems will attain that universal celebrity to which they are justly entitled. LOTT WARREN.

NANNIE.

LEANOR WILFORD pushed back her coffee-cup impatiently and frowned. Would her father never drink his coffee? She was wearied to death; she had been at the table a full hour already over the very simple meal that had been prepared for her father and herself. Her father was really getting worse and worse. She had hinted and hinted as to the discomfort of waiting and waiting for him in the first place, then of seeing him come in, when she had