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2 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