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have a mind to take it to my room.
Here are initials ‘M.D.’ but no name.
“Don’t take it, Arthur,” said Regie,
“I share Emily’s antipathy towards this
dark beauty,”
“It is nearly dinner time,” said Euge
nia.” drawing her watch from her belt,
“and wo must allow ourselves time to
dress.”
“Only this one more chest,” ieplied
Emily, opening a small and beautifully
carved oaken box; “look ! what is this ?”
and she drew forth a black velvet doub
let, such as was worn many years before
the time of which we are writing,”
“Surely, there is a stain of blood !”
said Genie, pointing to the lace ruffles,
and the right sleeve of the coat, which
was stiff with clotted gore; “and look at
that white shirt, the bosom is perfectly
red!”
Reginald shuddered involuntarily, and
hastily replaced the articles. At this
moment, the bell rang for dinner, and,
hastily locking the door, they carried the
pictures to their room, and hasty though
their toilet was, they kept the Earl waiting
nearly ten minutes.
Time passed on, and the old Earl, nay,
even the dark brothers, learned to love the
merry, obliging girls. We will not say
what marvels of worsted work were ac
c jmplished, in the shape of slippers, and
our readers must remember, there were
eight pair of feet to wear slippers. Regie
had worn his but once, when they were
counted among the things that had been;
they were lost, but it seemed strange
that his should have been taken, for they
were the smallest of them all. Need we
say how willingly Genie worked another
pair for him ? The dressing gowns those
industrious girls made, were of not such
brilliant colors as are usually chosen for
that purpose; but we will venture to as
sert that they were equally as comforta
ble. The Earl never appeared without
his iu the early part of the day, and once
he called Emily into his library, where
no one ever ventured without a special
invitation.
“I am about to ask a favor of you, my
dear,” he said in a hesitating tone. “I
want you to make me a robe de chambre,
that would fit Reginald ; let it be of rose
colored cashmere, lined with white silk.
Will you make it ?”
“Most certainly I will, dear unde, and
am glad of an opportunity to serve
you.”
The robe was completed, and the Earl
took possession of it. Then Emily com
menced copying the picture which so
captivated her fancy ; but, in her paint
ing, only the head and shoulders were
visible, surrounded by a silvery mist.
Eugenia declared that Emily was in love
with a picture, which, very likely, was
that of her grandfather, when he was
young!
CHAPTER 111.
One dark and stormy night, in April,
when Winter seemed to have returned for
a parting salute, Emily found herself un
usually restless. She had noticed a rest
less sadness on her uncle’s face, that
grieved her greatly ; the elder brothers,
too, looked gloomy, and she had found
that all her efforts to dispel that gloom
had been made in vain.
She found it impossible to sleep, and,
rising from her bed, she left her sisters
sleeping soundly, and, wrapping a shawl
around her, she entered the sitting room,
re-kindled the lire, and sat down, listen
ing to the howling winds. Sleep was
gently closing her eyes, when suddenly
she was roused by a loud cry that rang
through the house, a fitting accompani
ment to the stonn without.
Eugenia and Ailly spiang from the
bed, and, rushing into the sitting-room,
looked at Emily with terror-stricken
eyes.
Again, the scream rang upon their
ears, wild and thrilling, as of a soul in
mortal agony.
“Awful!” murmured Emily, covering
her face with her hands.
Nearer and nearer rang the awful
sounds ; no words were intelligible, but
the voice of wailing agony curdled the
blood, with its mysterious horror. And
now many feet were heard rapidly ap
proaching their room, a lew words of ex
postulation were spoken iu the entry,
aud then steps were heard rapidly re
treating; a distant door fell heavily to,
and all was still.
Amy and Eugenia lifted their faces
Isom their hands, after the lapse of ten
minutes of perfect silence assured them
that the awful sounds were really stilled.
Their lips and cheeks were white and
cold.
“Let us call Regie,” whispered Euge
nia ; but Emily had already tried the
door, and it was fastened on the outside!
They were looking at each other in utter
consternation, when a low tap at the door
attracted their attention.
“Open the door, cousin, it is I,
Arthur.”
* Emily drew the door open. Arthur
and Regie entered, carefully closing the
door after them.
“My poor dear!” exclaimed Regie,
folding his arm around Genie’s trembling
form, “you are terrified almost to death’;
we would have been here before, but our
door was fastened on the outside, as
yours was.”
With delicate forethought, he threw
a large shawl around Genie, as he still
supported her in his arms. Amy was
crouching near the corner of the fire
place, crying violently.
“What was it ?” gasped Genie, at
length
“We are as ignorant as you can be !”«
answered Regie ; “we have heard it twice
before, but we have never had an expla
nation given us of this mysterious occur
rence. Each time that we have heard
it, we have noticed that the next day our
father was absent from his usual seat at
table; the first time it was only for a
day ; the last time he was absent three
days. Iu answer to all our questions,
Marmaduke only replied that father was
not well, and did not wish to he dis
turbed.”
“May it not possibly have been uncle
Hugh ?” asked Eugenia.
“The same thought has occurred to me,”
replied Regie; “I know he has had a
great deal of trouble in the past —of wlmt
kind, 1 am ignorant; but Ido know that
his spirit and heart are almost broken ;
may not his mind give way at times,
also !”
“It is very likely,” said Arthur;
“what you say is reasonable, and he
keeps it from us, that the shadow of his
misfortune may not fall upon us. Poor,
dear father !”
By this time, Amy was somewhat
calm, and Emily had been able to collect
her scattered thoughts; she drew her
sister after lier totnc i edroom, and when
they were dressed, they returned to the
sitting room, and the remainder of the
night was spent around the fire.
No one could sleep; they could not
even read, to pass away the time ; and
hour after hour passed away, until, just as
day was dawning, Eugenia fell asleep on
Reginald’s shoulder.
Amy rested on the sofa, while Arthur
and Emily conversed in low tunes.
A number of pale, sad faces were
those assembled around the breakfast
table the next morning. The breakfast
was temptingly arranged on the tabic,
and Regie had filled the vases with the
rarest flowers from the green house; yet
the meal was left almost untasted. Mar
maduke glanced fearfully at Emily every
time she opened her lips to speak. As
they rose from the table, she went up to
him, and, resting her hand on his arm,
said :
“You need not fear, cousin, that I will
ask you any impertinent questions; it is
enough for me to know that my fears of
last night are a sad reality, that my uncle
is ill; I believe nothing but illness could
keep*him away from us.”
“You arc right, Emily,” replied Mar
maduke, seemingly much relieved ; “it is
illness, terrible illness, that keeps him
away ; but I hope he will be able to re
join us in the morning. He does not
wish any one to disturb him ; Jeffrey is
with him, and will attend to all his
wants.”
The day passed gloomily away, and
the next morning the Earl resumed his
place at the table. Emily greeted him
tenderly, and looked with tearful eyes upon
his pale, sad face. Not for an instant did
she believe that the agonizing cry they
had heard, ever issued from her uncle’s
lips ; but if not from his, from whose,
then ?
She determined to find out.
To no one did she impart her doubt.
Still less did she make known her de
termination.
Though the circumstance was not
forgotten, yet, after the lapse of a few
days, it ceased to shadow 7 the whole
family with such heavy gloom. Emily
seized the first opportunity of looking as
closely at the old Hall as possible, but
she saw nothing to reward her anxious
scrutiny. She then tried the door which
Arthur had mentioned as leading into the
old house, but it was fastened. She was
turning away in disappointment, when her
eye fell upon a small key lying within
the petals of one of the carved roses
that ornamented the door post. She did
not move it, then, as she heard Arthur
calling to her to come down stairs.
[to be continued.]
The Banner of the South, edited by
Father A. J. Ryan, one of the most gifted
poets and writers in the South, comes to
us regularly every week, and, it is almost
needless to add,| is perused with great
pleasure. We know of no literary paper
that wc should choose in preference to the
Banner of the South. It is published
by L. T. Blome & Cos., Augusta, Ga., at
$3.00 per annum, in advance. Sample
copies s^ntfree. — Sco’tsville ( Va.) Reg'i\
MMM m ÜBS- f©® SC
[Selected.]
Let Not the Heart Grow Selhsh
or Cold.
Touch us, oh, Time! with light hand as you pass,
Tempt us to think it a loving caress;
Tread on our hearts, too, with reverent care—
Crush not the flowers of life blooming there;
Furrow our foroheads with care, If you will,
But let youth linger within our hearts still.
’Mid our dark tresses are fibres of grey—
Silent reminders of life’s fleeting day;
And when we turn to the shadowy past,
On its bright altars lay ashes and dust;
All its fair idols are marked with decay—
All its sweet pictures are faded away.
Sadly we look for the friends of the past—
They of strong heart and the beautiful trust—
Some we find sleeping beneath sculptured stone;
Some toiling wearily onward alone;
Some, thro’ ambition, grown heartless and cold;
But one and all, save the dead, growing old.
Oft we grow weary in watching in vain
O’er hopes that always but shadows remain;
Weary of counting the joys that have died;
Weary of lay ing bright visions aside;
Weary of taking but dross for pure gold;
Weary, so weary, of hearts growing old.
Chase from us, Time, all shadowy fears;
Lift from our lives the slow burden of years;
Shadow our foreheads and sprinkle our hair;
But, oh! shield our hearts from the furrows of care;
Let not the heart grow selfish or cold,
And we shall no longer fear to grow old.
“We are linked together by a thousand ties. I can
not smile while ypu are weeping —you cannot be merry
if lam sad. Therefore, let us make a covenant with
each other; that we will withhold our sorrows and
Impart our joys. It is the secret of success. We talk
of the human family, but we do not think of the deep
significance of the term. Our brotherhood is larger
than the domestic circle, aud, if purest love centres
around the fireside of home, yet acts of kindness and
words of friendship should have no narrow limits.”
“Oh! bright occasions for dispensing good;
How seldom used, how little understood.”
“God will render to every man according to his
deeds.”
“Be it thine life's cares to smother,
And to brighten eyes now dim,
Kind deeds done to one another,
God accepts as done, my brother,
Unto Him.”
Lundy’s Lane, Oct. 4th, 1867.
[Written for the Banner of the South.]
POETRY AND POETS.
AN ESSAY.
BY JOIIX M. TURNER, il. D.
Poeta Nascn'ar, non fit.
II OB ACE.
It is a true saying of Horace, and a
wise one, that “Poeta Nascitur, non fit ,”
fora certain constitution of mind and
feeling, and, according to Phrenological
science, a certain development of brains,
a sensibility of nerves, is required at the
hand of Nature, before even the gods
can make any one poetical. Yet, it is
only the greatest of poets, who, in the
strictest sense of Horace’s words, arc born
such ; the others become so by association,
admiration, and ardent longing, gift of
song. “The slighter gifts of the poet,”
Coleridge observes, “may all, by inces
sant effort, be acquired by a man of
talents and much reading, who has mis
taken an intense desire for poetic repu
tation, for a natural poetic genius.” Our
own land, though scarce a century re
moved from the unbroken forest and un
disputed dominion of the unlettered sav
age, may boasftff a score of Poets, enti-.
tied to eminent rank in the several depart
ments of poetry. ’Tis true no Marseil
laise sprung, Minerva like, from the ge
nius of the times, yet, the war was a di
version from the accustomed channels of
the past, and to the future is reserved the
task of weaving into enduring rhyme
the thrilling incidents it has bequeathed
the page of history.
What is Poetry ? “ It is the investing
the sentiments of the mind with the at
tributes of beauty, novelty, and sublimi
ty.” It is the endowing the ordinary ac
tions and concerns of humanity with an
interest and purpose that reach to the
skies, and proclaim themselves the off
spring of “universal goodness,” The
prowess of Ulysses required to be robed
“with the coloring of Poetry ere it be
came immortal,” and the wild and tumul
tuous history of the age preceding Shak
speare afforded him the framework
whereon to weave his gorgeous dreams
and celestial aspirations. Versification,
says that most exquisite critic, Madame
De Stael, “Is a peculiar art, the investi
gation of which is inexhaustible.” Those
words which, in the ordinary relations of
life, serve only as sigus of thought, reach
our souls through the rytlim of harmo
nious sounds, and afford us a double en
joyment, arising from the sensation and
reflection ; and, though it may be true
that all languages arc equally proper to
express what we think, they are not
equally capable of imparting what we
feel. And the effects of Poetry depend
nearly as much on the melody of words
as in the ideas expressed. It is contend
ed by some ot the LiteraXi that the pic*
sent age is hostile to the poetic spirit;
but we think if the various periodicals of
the day were culled over closely that
many would be found who are invoking
the aid of the nine Muses; that there is
abundance of “Rhapsodists dressed out
in scraps with poetic Rags ;” but these
pedlars of verse are not the honey bees
which “bear to us from soft flowing
streams the melodies sipped in the gar
dens and glades of the Muses.” They only
will be the true poets of note, who can
arrest the discordant elements as by a
charm—“throw them, as by the electric
flash of soul, into order, and beauty, and
sublimity—create perfection out of chaos, 1
and give utterance to the burning whis
pers of the soul, in streams, less of earth
than Heaven and all this wifi they do,
as though inspired by a resistless impulse
of divine and magic spell. To please the
taste, elevate the sentiments, and lift the
mind above the sphere of History, Ora
tory, Science, and Philosophy, are among
the higher offices of Poetry. It is the
crystal-moulded sentiment of the heart,
coined from the finer sensibilities of the
soul, which, taking the wings of thought,
elevates, refines, and purifies our sensuous
being. Iu the beautiful tints of the little
flower, he reads a language, delicate in
thought, tender in expression, and sub
lime in nature. When he easts his eye
above, towards tbe canopy of Heaven,
and beholds the twinkling orbs that
bedeck illimitable space, be masters a di
alect rich with the eloquence of Jehovah
himself.
Poetry teems with passionate thoughts,
glowing expressions, and enlivened im
agination—with the ethereal faculties of
the mind, wrought upon by their more
vidid creation. Prose finds expression in
less earnest, yet more truthful and confi
dential, exercise of the mind. The ideas
and imagination of the poet are always
accompanied with the truly sublime ,
Poetry may be said to be the child of the
skies, ll Non tetigit quod non Ornavit ,”
The mind, through which poetry passes,
like the clear channel in which the moun
tain brook runs, seems to be beautified by
the waters that pass through it. It is
not, entirely, the rytlmi, the cadence, the
measure, nor the chosen words that thrill
us in the perusal and quotation of appro
priate Poetry; but it is that we seem to
be surrounded by anew light, that in
which the soul of the Poet was constantly
bathed; fer we regard a mind full of
poetry to bo full of emotion, full of the
beautiful, the sublime , and the great.
Not a plant that grows in our fields but
is full of life ; not a flower that opens
in our gardens, or adorns our parlors, but
it is pencilled with the most exquisite
skill. He goes to the desert and moun
tain side, and a hand has already been
there, to plant and paint the flower which
smiles at his approach. He looks into
the deep lake of the forest, or the swift
running streams of the valley, and nimble
swimmers of the finney tribe, all speck
led witli gold, and purple, and carmine, are
there to excite his wonder and admira
tion. From thence he peeps into the
deeper chambers of the ocean, and there
he beholds the coral and the shell, inimit
ably beautified in unmeasured profusion,
astonishing his enquiring mind. Or he
looks abroad on the surface of the earth
and the mountains heave up their huge
rocks like the skeleton of worlds not yet
formed, or the storm comes through the
uncleared forest like a destroying spirit
and sports with what.seems heretofore
immoveable ; and the hoarse roar of thun
der, and the bright electric flash of the
forked lightning, are all his, and he may
press them all into the service of his
song, and make them all sit at his feet,
and tune their harps at his bidding. Such
are some of the fields that the imagina
tive mind of the Poet can bask in, wander
ing o’er terrestrial scenes. But bow
much more expressive is the field, if he
be a true believer in the principles of the
Christian Religion, and the doctrines laid
down in the holy oracles of God. Then
he has such themes as Infinity, Immensi
ty, and Eternity, each of which is beyond
the comprehension of most finite mortals.
The Son of God is another theme on
which the Christian Poet loves to dwell.
A recent writer, discarding on the Love
of God to man, says:
“Could you with ink the ocean Are,
With parchments cover the land;
Was every stick a single quill,
A scribe each reed at hand;
To tell the. love of God to thee
Would run the ocean dry;
Nor would the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.”
Now, at the spot at which the man of
this world stops, the Christian Poet starts
As to materials, then, the Christian Poet
stands on ground as much superior to the
Poet of this worlds, as spirit is superior to
matter —as the infinite is greater than
the finite, and as Eternity is greater than
Time. What poem could Milton have
produced in his “Paradise Lost," had he
been confined to all that God has revealed
through His works—provided he must
shut out the Bible ? 'Tis here every de
partment of Poetry is found in its loftiest
excellence, The Bible abounds with the
beauty of Hebrew poetry. Here we find
the Lyric, the Dramatic, the Ele fiae th
Prophetic, and Devotional; and h, m
these departments we find a sublimity -
pathos, a boldness, and variety of v “
phor ; a majesty of thought; an <>rD;'
nality of conception; a purity of
ment; and a felicity of expression, which
you may seek for in vain amid the noblest
productions of uninspired bards of ancient
or modern times.
Among the first authors of these heu
enly poetic inspirations, we trace
names of Moses, David, Solomon, ,Jy r ,
and Isaiah. Moses may be justly ranked
as the Homer of the Hebrew age. Ip,
writings, taken altogether, but particular,
ly the delivery of the children of Israel
“the spirit of exultation of the triumph
song of Miriam, thrilling each heart with
its hymn of jubilee, will live as long us
the human mind is elevated in victorv, by
the thrilling song, and the beautiful j a
sentiment.” The description given in hi*
lines on Spring, are, perhaps, as beautiful
and Poetical as any to be found in the
pages of Biblical literature. David, also
was a poet,of a fine order ; his Psalms
tend to direct, and expand the mind in
reverence, adoration, and praise to the
Creator. They are a succession of beau
tiful thoughts, that spring up from a
soul of Poetry. The writings of the
Prophet-Poet, Isaiah, abound in theme
of striking beauty and touching tender
ness. In the God chapter is found a speci
men, of the Dramatic, in which the Mes
siah, coining to vengeance, is introduced
with the chorus, as in a theatrical repre
sentation ; and in the 53d chapter he gives
a sublime portrait of the Mission and suf
ferings of tbe expected Messiah, though
written seven hundred years before that
eventful period.
The scholar who has studied the beau
ties of Homer, has felt the power of “the
deep passion of Dante,” —has soared o'er
the lofty wings of Milton’s verse—-ha<
communed with the myriad-minded “Bard
of Avon”—has, indeed, traversed a noble
field, and drank at sweet and sparkli::.
fountains ! But let him peruse and ex
plore the sublimer realms of Poetry,
which are disclosed in this Sacred Book,
and he will find loftier heights—lovelier
plains—more invigorating breezes—m l
perennice streams, of which he will drink
and he shall never thirst.
The Book of Job may be cited as
- the Ethic, Didactic, and Pathetic
elements in a remarkable degree. F r
sublimity, beauty, and pathos; for warmth
of sentiment, intensity of passion, and
power of expression; in fine, for every
grace and excellence of true Poetry, we
think its equal cannot be found amount
the uninspired literature of ancient r
modern ages.
Poetry seems almost co-eval with the
first fruits of civilization. Among the
Ancients, its refining effects enlightened
the Pagan darkness of superstition and
barbarity. To the earlier Greeks and
Romans, it was the preservation of History
and Philosophy. But among the Greek
it was held in higher estimation, perhaps,
than by any other people. They appear
to have given a wider scope to its useful
ness, and a more Extended field in whi ..
to exercise its expanding power. 'ML
them it was an accomplishment in which
the triumph of Heroes was sung; the le
gends of History enwreathed, and t.
wisdom of Philosophers proclaimed.
And to its natural, powerful charms, they
added its twin-sister Music—which, when
j adjusted to the Lyre and the Harp, a:. ;
! touched by the skillful player, as u Mm -
1 and Thales, resounded with the practical
j song of refinement and civilization.
Almost in its infancy, the Greeks ma t
I such improvement in Poetical composi
tion as led to those distinctions know:
as the Heroic, Elegiac, Lyriac, lamb;a
and other divisions. A much Mvorc
elass of* Poetry, with both Greeks a:;
Romans, was the Pastoral. It delighted
in refreshing shades, sequestered nootf,
retirement of country life, among moun
tains and plains, sporting with lambkns.
singing with birds, drinking from c:*
and running brooks, the chief pleas or*'
of domestic life, and close relation to
ture and to God. Among the hot -
Pastoral Poets we mention
whose Idyls charmed the rustic <'_ ar ’•
Greece. With the Romans, W'- T
through the classic elegance of the (n ••
gics, gave an additional charm to cct
try life and pursuit of husbandry. n ;
England’s Poets, Shenstone deligh'
most in the pleasures of rural eiega’- 1 •
instance : the lowing herd of Cattle
the distant hills; the singing linnet m--
bleating lambs, and the shadowy g- •.
were his chief delight; this is
bv one of his productions, caueu
‘‘Pastoral Ballad.” Pope has also
the Pastoral an enduring place in " ! -
lish literature. The Lyric poem linm r -
among its favorite votaries the name ■- ,
Pindar, Sappho, Addison, Gray J .-'
Akonside. Akenside may be said toj ■*.
equal claims to the Lyric and
“The Pleasures of Imagination,
without doubt, the master production