The Rev. Quintin Hollowell Trotman, the subject of this short sketch, was born in the county of Perquimans, North Carolina, January 27th, 1805, of Joseph Trotman and Sabrey his wife, whose maiden name was Hollowell. When he was an infant his parents removed to Sandy Cross, Gates county, where his father died, leaving this his only child, very young, and a bereaved widow. Being very poor, and without the advantages even of common schools, his opportunities for an education were meagre indeed, having been but six months of his life within the walls of a school room. His mother had likewise received but slight instruction, and was therefore poorly qualified to direct and guide the son. Her strong mind and resolute energy to a great extent supplied this deficiency, and she reared her son to become a man. The intervals of arduous daily labor were cultivated by the mother in implanting in her son principles of right and wrong, which have given tone and distinction to his character through life.

The toils and struggles of his youth for support afforded but little time for mental cultivation. Saving his mother's care, he was eminently a self-made man. At the early age of nineteen years he was married to Miss Eliza Brinkley, and until his connection with the church, was entirely engaged in the business of farming, which for the support of an increasing family, claimed his whole attention. Meanwhile the influence of evil associates over one of his confiding nature, had its natural effect in leading him astray, and the step from virtue to vice being easy and short, he soon became notorious for his wickedness. His career however was short; he was to become the chosen instrument of God. The prayers of his anxious wife and mother were answered in the conversion of the husband and son. Making a profession of his faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, he was by baptism administered by the Rev. Robert T. Daniel, on the 9th of April, 1828, received into the church. The energy which had given him notoriety a man of the world now distinguished him as the man of God. The church quickly appreciating his talents, licensed him to preach in June, 1830, which was soon followed by an order for his ordination. On the 31st day of July, 1831, he was ordained by the Revs. Jeremiah Etheridge and John Harrell.

He at once attained a prominence for eloquence, originality of thought, pathos, force of argument, power of delivery and impressiveness of manner, which always commanded an audience and ensured attention. Whenever and wherever it was known that he would preach, a large congregation ever attended. Whether in his appeals to a throne of grace, in singing praises to God, or from the pulpit expounding the plan of redemption, the melodious strains of his sonorous voice filled every ear, subdued every improper thought, and drew along the listener a willing captive, a captive whose chains were golden, and his captivity rapturous delight. However prejudiced was the hearer, however he winced under the withering excoriation of his powerful oratory, however much the sensitive bigot denounced him as he exposed the fallacy of creeds, and pointed to the true light that lighteth the world, and in the bitterness of his spleen, resolved never again to hear him, prejudice and bigotry failed to resist the attraction, and again and again becoming bearers, they would finally yield, and be obedient to the Master's will.

There was in him nothing assumed for the occasion. There was no starchy buckram to repulse, no gaudy tinsel for display. All was easy, all plain and unaffected. He never seemed to be conscious of his own ability. He was nature's true orator. The outgushing emotions of a noble heart, moved by the finger of God, and touched by the quickening influences of his holy spirit operating through the most powerful intellect of the State, could not fail to captivate the hearts of his hearers, and to convict the sinner of his guilt and a judgment to come. He was blessed with a most retentive memory, that never failed him while his eye-sight was unimpaired. In the course of an argument he would with ease and without effort call to his aid quotations so full and so apposite, as had cost other ministers weeks of hard labor to cull and to arrange.

He borrowed nothing of others. Feeling the responsibility of his position, he leaned not upon learned theologians, but placing his trust in God from his word derived the waters of life. His opinions, formed by careful research and once fixed, he boldly pronounced. He shunned not to declare the whole counsel of God. He winked at no whitewashing of error, but fearlessly tearing away the covering exposed its deformity. He never made any compromise of the truth. It was his habit to call things by their proper names, and thus often gave offence when his object only was to preach Christ and him crucifind. He applied all the energies of his nature to the work of his Master with labor unremitted, zeal never failing, and faith never faltering. To labor for Christ was his highest pleasure, to build up his Church the work to which lie had devoted himself. He worked beyond the measure of his strength. His vigorous constitution finally broke down. He continued his labors, however, without remission, only as sickness prevented, though with great suffering. For the last ten years of his life he rarely passed an hour but in pain. In the spring of 1859 he lost his sight. The source whence he derived much pleasure being thus cut off, though in the main for a sick man cheerful, he lost much of his usual vivacity. His time was employed in readings by his children. He ,continued, nevertheless, to preach, and to his death was pastor of the church at Sandy Cross, into which he had been received by baptism, and to which he had broken the bread of life, save an interval of three years, from his ordination to his death. Faithful flock, faithful shepherd! He ever enjoyed the confidence of his ministering brethren; with them be was a tower of strength. The love borne him by his church was warmly reciprocated. His love for all his brethren was as a deep stream that flows silently on though it bears Argosies on its bosom. It was indeed a never-failing fountain; it expanded and strengthened as long as life lasted. Aye, it was love that killed him at last. Often during his illness he would say, my child, my boy, “when it is asked you what killed me, say it was love; love for his children that killed your father.” It was, doubtless, the great anxiety be felt for his children in the service of the country, his strongest sympathies enlisted in the struggle, the great depression of spirits ensuing from the loss of his wife, who had died but a few weeks before his last confinement that completely prostrated him. He suffered the most excruciating pain, though with the greatest patience and resignation, repeatedly pronouncing his trust in Christ; continuously uttering favorite passages of scripture, and singing praises to God. His ardent affections overflowed in expressions of love to visiting friends, to his children and servants. Kissing all, kissing the hands of his servants, and looking at each intensely as though loth to be separated from them, he would point them to a blissful reunion in heaven, and pray God to take him to himself. He was firmly impressed that his time was growing short; that he was slowly passing away. He blessed and praised God that he was pleased to afflict him, saying that his afflictions would work out for him a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory! Thus, in singing, praying and earnest invocations for mercy, blessing his children, his friends and brethren and servants, he spent the las moments of his life. For the last two or three days perceptibly suffering but little, he quietly sank away in the bosom of his God. He died as only the Christian can die. On Friday the 9th day of May, 1862, as the rays of the morning sun gilded the tree tops, his spirit winged its way to an eternity of rest.

No one can appreciate the merits of the man morally, intellectually, or socially, unless he knew the circumstances of his whole life. The difficulties that environed him would have crushed most men. To have reared so large a family of children, nine in number, as he has done, with so little of this world's goods upon which to draw for support, was enough; but with the limited opportunity for mental cultivation he enjoyed, that he accomplished so much is the wonder of those who knew him best. And no one knew all, for in his last illness he often said, “eternity alone will disclose to the astonishment of my most intimate friends the difficulties with which I have had to contend.”

The loss of such a man to any community cannot be estimated. As a complicated machinery, its balance wheel broken, society for the while ceases its customary throbbings. There is a pause in all around that denotes a grievous calamity, and each seeks sympathy in the misfortune that has befallen all. Universally respected and beloved, endeared to a very large circle of acquaintances by the ties of long-continued and unbroken friendship stronger than the lion's grip, his death severs a link in the chain of faithful friends that cannot be repaired. His loss to the church is irreparable, he was her most talented and able minister. A strong man in Israel hath fallen. A shining jewel of the fraternity has dropped into the Master's hands. But if friends and brethren mourn him, what shall quiet the aching hearts of his aged mother and beloved children, whose love and admiration for the son and father knew no limit? They loved him as but few know how to love. His love for them constrained the love of himself. “O, Absalom, my son, my son Absalom!” were among his last words. It was this love that killed him. Mourning they will mourn with a grief that findeth no consolation but in the promises of God, looking forward to the realization of the hope that they shall all meet again in a heaven of eternal rest.