as the scenes amid which it was inspired gradually fade from memory. Much of it is cosmopolitan in its character, portraying emotions common to the human heart in every age and clime, and the world will not willingly let it die. Timrod, upon the whole, has not the grand swelling movement of Byron, nor the labored ornamentation of Moore, nor the classic finish of Gray or Tennyson, nor the wild, romantic charm of Coleridge or Poe; but there are times when he surpasses each of these on his own ground and in his own field. While not a martial poet, he yet rises in his battle hymns to a height of power which neither Scott nor Campbell ever reached. There are passages in his "Carolina" beside which such utterances as "Charge, Chester, Chester, charge, On, Stanley, on," and "Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, and charge with all thy chivalry," sound tame and commonplace. In his "Carolina" he portrays vividly the condition of the State, rebukes the apathy of the people, calls on her sons to arouse, and then as his fancy catches the sound of a low rising murmur gradually swelling into a voluminous answering shout, his glowing imagination pictures the quick gathering of the panoplied hosts and he rises, as in the following lines, to the very acme of grandeur and thrilling power: "I hear a murmur as of waves That grope their way through sunless caves, Like bodies struggling in their graves, Carolina! "Shout! let it reach the startled Huns! Carolina! In spirit and expression, I believe that this battle lyric is equal to anything of the kind that has ever been written, and in one essential element it surpasses all the martial odes of Scott, Campbell, Burns and Tennyson. That element is to be found in the wild, fierce joy of battle, vividly suggested by the line: "And roar with all thy festal guns!" No higher tribute could be paid to the gay chivalry and superb gallantry of his countrymen than is paid in that splendid line. His poem, "The Cotton Boll," is fashioned upon the same general plan as Longfellow's "Keramos." In each of these poems a subject is taken which, at first view, promises little for the play of poetic fancy or for the inspiration of beautiful imagery. But under the magic touch of poetic genius the images rise in quick succession and pass before our entranced vision in a long train of gorgeous beauty. I believe, however, that no candid reader can ex amine carefully these two poems without being convinced that in beauty of diction, perfection of finish, and scope, richness, and delicacy of fancy, Timrod far surpasses Longfellow. The limits assigned to this paper have already been transgressed and I am debarred from undertaking the delightful task of writing a review of Timrod's poems. Besides the characteristcs already attributed to his poetry, there is one dominant quality which will always be recognized and appreciated, that is, purity of thought and expression. His poetry was but the reflection of a soul as pure as ermine, the overflow of a heart singularly free from every degrading passion. He never wrote a line nor a word, which even by association or the remotest implication, would generate an impure thought or excite an impure passion. Further, he wrote nothing puerile, or low, or commonplace. Every line of his poems is a poetic line in the full sense of the term. He did not write too much for his fame, as Byron, Wordsworth, Tennyson, and indeed, most great poets have done. He delivered the message he had in his heart in terms of chaste and graceful diction and never tried by mere mechanical devices to palm off a message that was not genuine. So much can hardly be truly said of any other prominent poet of the century. His countrymen at last are beginning to appreciate him and to exercise a tender watch-care over his fame. A Timrod Memorial Association has been formed composed of many of the most eminent men in the State. This Association has recently published a memorial volume containing a complete collection of Timrod's works, together with a memoir of his life written by that distinguished scholar and gentleman, Hon. W. A. Courtenay. The proceeds of this book, after paying expenses of publication, are all to be applied to the purchase of a monument to be erected over the poet's grave. While his most enduring monument will be the love and admiration of living men and women, it is nevertheless a sad fact that his ashes have slept in Trinity church yard in Columbia for the greater part of thirty years with hardly a stone to mark the sacred spot. What was said over another poet's grave, might be repeated over his: "No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb Affliction's self deplores thine early doom." PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF THE BATTLE OF CHANCELLORSVILLE. The battle of Chancellorsville was one of the most remarkable battles of modern times. The Union army consisted of one hundred and thirty-eight thousand fighting men. It was thoroughly drilled and superbly equipped. The Northern newspapers dubbed it “the finest army on the planet," and this high-sounding epithet was repeated all over the civilized world. It was commanded, too, by "Fighting Joe Hooker," whose soubriquet was supposed to embody the leading characteristics of the general. The Southern army lay stretched out along the Rappahannock in front of Fredericksburg, consisting of only two corps and numbering of all arms about forty thousand men. Yet this army of forty thousand hurled itself upon that army of a hundred and thirty-eight thousand strongly intrenched on ground of its own choosing, and but for what in our blindness we can only call an untoward accident, would have annihilated it in less than three hours. As it was, the "finest army on the planet" was badly beaten and driven in a demoralized mass back across the Rappahannock, leaving thousands of killed and wounded and whole brigades of prisoners in the hands of the victors. All this, too, when only one corps of the Confederate army numbering about twenty thousand, fought. The other corps, however, acted a part in the drama in holding the front, as necessary as that of fighting. General Lee may be said to have held Hooker's army with one hand and pounded it with the other, as a strong man holds and pounds a boy. |