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VOL. I.
LINES.
AKi’KCTIONATKLT INSCRIBBD TO UKV. H. V. BROWN, OF
CHATTANOOGA.
BY MOI NA .
Weary Hearts! woarv hearts! by the cares of life
oppressed,
Ye are wand’ring in the shadows—ye are sighing for a
rest;
The# is darkness in the heavens, and the earth is
bleak below.
And the joys we taste to-day may to-morrow turn to
woe.
Weary Hearts! God is Rest.
Lonely Hearts! lonely hearts! this is but a land of
grief;
Ye are pining for repose—ye are longing for relief;
What the world hath never given—Kneel, and ask of
God above,
A.nd your grief shall turn to gladness—if you loan
upon His love.
Lonely Hearts ! God is Lotfe.
Restless Hearts! restless hearts! ye are toiling night
and day,
And the flowers of life all withered, leave but thorns
along your way;
Ye are waiting—ye are waiting till your toilings all
shall cease,
And your ev'ry restless beating is sad—sau prayer for
peace.
Restless Hearts! God is Peace.
Breaking Hearts! broken hearts ! ye are desolate and
lone,
And low voice* from the Past o’er your present ruins
moan!
In the sweetest of your pleasures there was bitterest
alloy—
And a starless night hath followed on the sunset of
your joy.
Broken Hearts ! God is Joy.
Homeless Hearts! homeless hearts! through the
dreary, dreary years.
Ye are lonely, lonely wand’rers, and your way is wet
with tears;
In bright or blighted places, wheresoever you may
roam,
Ye look away from earth-land, and ye murmur’“vrhore
is Home?”
Homeless Hearts! God is Home.
[Fom the Atlantic Monthly.]
[concluded.]
A sound of the trampling of many feet
was presently heard, and it became evi
dent that the boys had wearied of outdoor
amusement, and sought the sitting-room.
Beth mothers grew uneasy—Mrs. Gourlay
in the dread of injuries indicted, Mrs.
'William in the fear that her tribe was
indicting them.
“Cecy, dear,” she said, “go into the
other room, and try to keep some sort of
order among those boys.”
The young damsel departed on her
mission, nothing loath ; clad in delegated
authority, she felt herself an important
character. John’s countenance tell as he
saw the smart muslin and the neat gaiters
in the door-way.
‘Can’t we have less noise here, chil
dren ? asked Cecilia. “ Mamma and
aunt can hardly hear themselves speak
Ceurge ! let go that hook. You must*
not snatch, sir! Now what is all this
dispute about V’
“It s John’s fault,” said George, in loud
complaint, “lie won’t let me look, lie
said he’d show me the pictures, and now
ho holds the book so high I can’t see.”
“John,’ spake the austere Cecilia, “you
d' >n t understand very well how you ought
10 treat your company. I wonder you
aie not ashamed to tease a boy so much
smaller than yourself.”
John succumbed. He might defy
Cecilia from the back stoop, but in her
presence he was vanquished. They had
always been opposing forces. When thev
were smaller, her arm had often been
black and blue from his vengeful pinches
and his locks had suffered from her angry
dutch. This was all past long ago ; such
personal encounters were ages removed
' lom the present dignity of the individ
ads. But they were still at swords’
P nits in a more quiet way, and there
" as a chill of conscious virtue in the
younger and weaker of the two that
11 •’ iawed her opponent. He sulkily sur
rendered the book to George; and the
other hoys, taking their stand on their
sacred character of guests, lorded it over
him without mercy.
Tea caused an agreeable diversion.
Mr. Gourlay and his brother had come
in, Mrs. Gourlay had paid her superin
tending visits to kitchen and table, Kitty
and Emma had returned from the orchard
with arms sentimentally entwined about
each other’s waists, and six o’clock had
arrived. Punctually, as the last stroke
died on the air, the hostess marshalled
her clan and led the way. There was a
little bustle and delay in seating so large
a party, and a casting down of eyes while
grace was said ; then the whole wonder
ful coup (Vasil hurst upon them—the firm,
fine cloth with its satin gloss and even
folds ; the glitter of china and silver ; the
ruby and amber translucencies of sweet
meats; the biscuits, each a snowy puff,
surmounted by its delicate crust of
brown ; the contrasts of plum and lady
cake, melting white and luscious dark
ness, piled together in the basket. From
these goodly cakes what fine aroma rose !
what a sense had every guest of the polish,
the perfection, to which the arrangements
had been brought. Mrs. William was
vexed with herself that even she could
not escape it. The china was no better
than her own, the spoons not half as
handsome. She had a silver-plated tea
tray and service, of neat and tasteful pat
tern, for her own great occasions ; yet
somehow the britannia-metal teapot and
the japanned salver impressed her with
a feeling of their excellence, of the splen
did festivity of any occasion which they
graced, beyond what her own were ever
able to convey. It must have been be
cause they were so highly prized, so
sedulously guarded. No hands but Mrs.
Gourlay’s own would be permitted to
wash the precious china ; every piece
must be rinsed in the fairest of water,
wiped on the softest of towels. The
waiter demanded not less care; hot
water must not come near it, for fear of
cracking the japan ; nor soap, lest the
brightness of the coloring should be im
paired. Tender wiping with a damp
cloth, soft polishing with a dry one, then
a little sweet oil, and a retirement to the
loftiest shelf of the pantry —this was the
ceremony which it underwent after every
occasion of use and exposure. Similar
cares awaited the britannia-metal teapot.
People take you very much at your own
valuation, it is said; and there is no
doubt that Mrs. Gourlay considered these
articles, dating back to that era in the
world’s history when she began to “keep
house,” as immeasurably superior to her
sister-in-law’s possessions.
As to the dainties themselves, there
could be no question of their unapproach
able excellence. To do Jane Maria
justice, she was willing enough to ac
knowledge Mrs. Gourlay’s claims, and
would have been content, on most occa
sions, to defer to her authority. But
when this homage was exacted, and her
own deficiencies were treated as a matter
of course, her spirit rose in rebellion.
Housekeeping was a department wherein
Mrs. Gourlay considered.that the merely
“tolerable” was “not to be endured,” and
her demeanor accorded with this convic
tion.
She sat now behind her teapot, dis
pensing the richest cream and the most
fragrant Hyson ; eating little herself, that
the more watchful care might be given to
her guests. She was a bountiful “pro
vider” ; if her beef were shadowy thin,
the plates were heaped, nor could she be
content till every niece and nephew was
liberally supplied with all the niceties be
fore them. Only one thing on the table
did she begrudge them—the cloth. She
had been sorely tempted to use some of the
every-day damask on this occasion, but
die high sense of duty prevailed. The
best things belonged, of right, to “corn
pany and they must go on, though, of
course, they could only serve, for the ore
AUGUSTA, GLA., JUNE 20, 1868.
time. Her brightest hope was that no
holes would be cut by careless knife
blades. and no permanent stains result
from the visit.
Jane Maria had not intended to gratify
her hostess by any comment on the char
acter of the entertainment, hut the exqui
siteness of the sweetmeats was too much,
too much for her resolution. It was be
fore the days of canning, and the point of
honor among housewives was to have
preserves of a light color. Mrs. Gourlay’s
were hardly darker than the uncooked
fruit, the flavor was delicious, the syrup
rich and crystal-clear.
“I never saw anything like it,” ex
claimed Jane Maria, impulsively. “How
do you manage to have them so nice?”
Mrs. Gourlay smiled her calm, supe
rior smile, hopeless of imparting her
method to such an aspirant. Jane
Maria’s plums always broke, she knew ;
and, if she did her peaches whole, they
were sure to diy on the pit.
“I don’t know that there is anything I
could tell you about it,” she said. “They
are done just as we always do our sweet
meats.”
“Pound for pound?” suggested the
querist.
“Os course—the best white sugar. I
don’t believe in having to heat them up
every month or two.”
“Strange !” said Mrs. William. “ I
always make them just that way, but mine
never look like these.”
“The always clean a brass kettle every
time we use it,” said Mrs. Gourlay.”
Jane Maria flushed at this implication.
“I don’t think the habit is peculiar to
you,” she answered. “I never knew any
one that didn’t.”
“ ‘Cleanliness is the virtue next to god
liness,” quoted her husband, not that it
was particularly apposite, but just by way
of saying something.
“Next in advance of it, Martha thinks,”
observed Mr. Gourlay, jocosely.
“It is not my habit to jest about serious
things,” said that lady, with severe
visage.
“Well, Martha,” persisted her husband,
with ill-timed levity, “I knew you thought
a great deal of yonr brass kettle, but I
didn’t suppose you regarded it in that
light.”
Everybody smiled but Mrs. Gourlay,
whose features preserved the sternest
gravity. “Will you have another cup of
tea ?” she said to Mrs. William. “James,
your brother is out of butter.”
Her tone recalled people to their senses.
The husband hastened to expiate his of
fence by pressing every one to take a
little more of everything, while Jane
Maria endeavored to remove the cloud by
amiable chattiness. On the other hand,
Cecilia, jealous of the family honor, left
her sweetmeats untouched for the re
mainder of the meal—a circumstance
which she was assured would not escape
the keen vision of her aunt—and partook
but lightly of the other dainties.
“Have some plum-cake, child ?” said
Mrs. Gourlay, as the young heroine
broke off the merest fragment from a
white slice.
“Thank you, aunt,” she responded
coolly, “I don’t care for any.”
“Not care for plum-cake ! What ails
you ? - Don’t you feel well V’
“0 yes, I’m perfectly well,” said the
resolute voice ; “but I don't wish for any,
thank you.” And she persisted, though
the appealing rfehness of the seductive
compound almost brought tears to her
eyes. Mrs. Gourlay wondered and pon
dered within her own breast. Gould
that girl be so dead to merit as not to
like her cake, her sweetmeats ?—which
was just the effect “that girl” intended to
produce.
“Cecy is getting on finely with her
music, I hear,” said her uncle, presently.
“Yes,” replied the pleased mother.
“Her teacher says she is making good
progress.” “Does her voice get any
stronger, do you think ?” asked Mrs. G.
“Stronger ?” said Jane Maria, doubt
fully. “I don’t know—perhaps so—l
haven’t observed.” Mr. Gourlay, having
often been made the confidant of his wife’s
views as to the folly of “your brother’s
people” in wasting their money on Cecilia,
who had no more voice than a wren, un
derstood the question better. He
hastened to prevent any awkwardness by
saying—
“l must come over and hear her, my
self, and then I can judge. You’ll play
for me some day—won’t you, Cecy ?”
“Yes, uncle, any time you like,” replied
the youug lady, with the gracious air of
one conferring an undoubted favor.
“What a child that is ?” thought Mrs.
Gourlay, with inward sarcasm. “I should
like to have the training of her awhile.”
And indeed she would have done credit
to such training. She was much more
like her aunt than little Emma would
ever he. Her decision, sharpness, and
esprit du corps were quite foreign to the
generous and easy temperament of her
mother. Had she been condemned to
calico pantalets and patched aprons, she
would have looked with virtuous disdain on
any other style of garment, and felt sure
that there was exalted merit in the wear
ing of her own ; whereas poor Emma was
always oppressed by a sense of their
ugliness and inferiority.
After tea there was an adjournment to
the parlor, but only a brief tarry there.
Mrs. William wished to be at home by the
younger children’s bedtime ; she knew,
besides, that her sister-in-law must be
getting anxious to begin her labors upon
the china and silver. There were the
usual excuses for leaving, the usual civil
pressing to stay longer, and then the
little procession set out through the twi
light. It was a rather quiet walk, aud
once or twice Mrs. William sighed.
“What’s the matter, Jenny ?” said her
husband.
“Nothing, that I know of,” she answer
ed, brightening ; only a visit at Martha’s
always makes me discouraged, somehow.
Ordinarily, 1 feel as if I did pretty well,
considering the children and all my
cares.”
“And so you do,” said her husband,
heartily—“so you do. I should like
to see the woman that would manage
better.”
“But when I go there,” she continued,
“everything looks so fresh and new,
there is such order and neatness every
where, that I feel as if my housekeeping
was a miserable failure. It seems as if I
ought to do better, and as if I mud, and
yet 1 don’t know where to begin.” And
she sighe l again.
“I don’t see any occasion ” said her
husband. “I don’t know why you havn’t
things every whit as nice.”
“0 William! Why, did you observe
that lounge ? She had it ages before we
bought ours, and yet how bright it looks,
while ours is quite shabby, already.”
“Reason, enough. She hasn’t five
children and a baby to tumble on it.”
“And then her table—everything the
best of the kind. However, it isn’t that
I mean ; it isn’t any one matter, particu
larly. But you feel that in that house all
is as it should be—no disorder, no con
fusion, the right time and the right place
always remembered. And, if you didn’t
feel it, Martha would be sure to remind
you.”
“That she would ! And as for your
»elf, Jenny, don’t worry a bit. Your
housekeeping is all right. I'm always
sure of every comfort I care for in my
own home, and of being allowed to en
joy it in peace. I believe houses were
made for people, and not people for
houses, for iny part.”
“Thank you, William,” said Jane
Maria, gratefully.
Mrs. Gourlay meanwhile cleared away
with busy hands the remnants of the
feast. “This cut cake, Emma,” she
said, “I shall leave out for you and John.
The smoked beef you may have, too—
what’s left of it. One, two, three, four
spots on the table-cloth; Melinda must
put it in sweet milk to-night ; it has got
off pretty well. Do you think I can
trust you to carry these saucers to the
pantry ?” 80 the work went on ; in a
brief space the table was cleared, and the
crumb-cloth was shaken ; then the lounge
cover was put on, and everything re
stored to pristine neatness.
“There’s one good job accomplished,”
thought Mrs. Gourlay. “It is a weight
off my mind when these visits are over.”
Eight years passed more or less
pleasantly away. Little Harry, the
“baby” of the visit, was now a stout and
noisy lad of ten ; Kitty and Emma were
crowned with the roses of sixteen ; the
“boys” had shot up into tall youths who
came in to dinner with a great shuffling
of feet in the entry, who laughed loudly
and delighted in practical jokes. Mrs.
Gourlay declared that it would drive her
crazy to live in the same house with
them, and she wondered Jane Maria could
survive it. But Jane Maria happily had
good health ; she was equally a stranger
to the fiend Neuralgia and the archfiend
Dyspepsia; her nerves were firm, and
she looked indulgently on the stir and
mirthfulness of the young life about her.
John Gourlay, having stored his brain
at the Academy with such erudition as
was considered needful for him, was now
“clerking it” in a neighboring city, with
great credit to himself and satisfaction
to his employers. It was the opinion
of both father and uncle that John would
make a first-rate man of business, and
achieve a fortune at an early age.
Our friend Cecilia had become a tall
girl of nineteen; prettty, though in a
light and slender way that might degen
erate into angularity as she grew older.
She, too, had been endowed with all the
graces and accomplishments that the
Academy could bestow, with an addi
tional year at a well-reputed seminary.
She was considered by all the village
circle a very highly educated young lady
and au authority in music. Those were
the dark ages of harmony among country
amateurs ; and her facile rendering of
Quicksteps and Polkas, her singing at
sight all the ballads and “set pieces” that
came in her way, were quite sufficient to
establish her superiority among her
young compeers.
Cecilia’s education, technically so call
ed, was, however, the smallest part other
merits. On her had been bestowed, and
in no stinted measure, that higher gift
than genius—“faculty.” No household
mystery so deep, no achievement so lofty,
that she would not dare it; and her ef
forts were always rewarded with success.
In her own home such a daughter was an
invaluable boon ; she took up the dropped
stitches of life, and repaired its waste places.
Aunt Gourlay might slight her niece’s
music, but she could not scorn her cake
and pastry; she was candid, though
prejudiced, and admitted the girl’s skill,
only qualifying the admission with a
wonder as to where on earth she could
have picked it up. Increased respect did
not increase her affection for the youthful
rival; she felt that her sceptre was in
some sort departing from her. Jane
Maria’s husband continued prosperous,
and every year adorned their dwelling
with new and handsome articles, beyond
her own means of purchasing, while
Cecilia’s energy left her no prextext for
the fulness of her old contempt. Lack
of self-appreciation was not among the
niece’s faults; she never deferred, as
her mother had been wont to do, to Mrs.
Gourlay’s wisdom, but maintained her
own entire ability to accomplish anything
she undertook. Mrs. Gourlay stared a
little when she first began to say ‘‘ice,’
and to explain that such and such wa
u our way”; but Cecilia did not mind the
stare, and even went on to offer her aunt
two or three of her receipts.
Mrs. Gourlay was obliged to take her
No. 14.