Funding for the digitization of this title was provided by R.J. Taylor, Jr. Foundation.
About The banner of the South. (Augusta, Ga.) 1868-1870 | View Entire Issue (June 20, 1868)
2 stand on the superior order, the undis turbed quiet and precision, of hei own abode, hopeless of attainment in a family as large as her sister-in-law s. She comforted herself, too, with sarcasms on the arrangement of the new furniture, set in tidily across the corners, or out on the H 0 >r, instead of straight against the wall in tlic good old manner. She despised the litter of bright trifles which sprinkled tlie tables ; and thought the bedroom was the place for cologne-bottles, Bohemian glass or not. All this consoled, but did not compensate. It did not prevent Cocilia’s attainments, for instance, in the fancy line of cookery—the ice-creams, the Charlottes, the blanc-mangcs —while her own skill lay mainly in the plain and solid branches. Worst of all, it did not remedy Emma’s shortcomings. Poor Emma was as inefficient a scion as Jane Maria herself could ever have produced. She was docile, but she loved books and hated work. It was trying to Mrs. Gourlay to go over of a morning to the other house—to sec Cecilia cheerfully busy in rubbing up the silver, or polishing the window-panes, or, perchance, in the kitchen concocting marvels with sugar and spice—and then, returning home, to see that Emma had sewed to just the exact stitch indicated in her task, that she had forgotten to dust the table-legs, and was now off with a book and an apple to some favorite haunt, utterly oblivious ol do mestic cares. llow she groaned over a “shiftliness” so foreign to her nature, her precept, and her practice ! how she was even tempted, sometimes, to go to the fearful length of holding up Jane Maria's daughter as an example to her own ! While affairs stood thus, John came home for his summer vacation. Here was a child in whom her heart could de light itself. He understood his work, and gave himself up to it ; more than that, he was succeeding finely. He brought the pleasant news that another thousand had just been added to his salary, and that he had high hopes of “an interest in the business” another year. With what admiring eyes did Mrs. Gourlay gaze on his well-grown, manly figure ! with what comfort listen to the evening talk with his father on prices and profits, and his clever business anecdotes ! It so happened that John and Cecilia had not seen each other for a year or two—her absence at school, or visits to friends, Laving prevented their meeting. There had been time for changes on both sides. “What a pretty, stylish girl Cecilia has grown into !’’ remarked John, on his return from the first call upon his rela tions. It never occurred to the unheeding mother that this remark imported any thing to her, more than if he had observed of some Chinese lady, that her finger-nails were dyed a charming shade, “I was glad that all went off so peace ably,” said Emma, laughing—-“that you did not pinch, nor she pull hair, at the first visit.” John smiled at the allusion to old times. “I was a rough young fellow in those days,” he said. “I don’t know about that,” upspake the mother, jealous of her son’s repute. “You were never rough with your sis ter.” u Emma was such a gentle little kitten,” he said, looking at her affection ately. ‘ And Cecilia was such a vixen,” added Mrs. Gourlay. “O well,” said her husband, “we musn’t bring that up against her now. She has outgrown it all, and is a credit to the family.” “I’m not so sure/’ persisted Mrs. Gourlay. “It’s easy talking, but people don’t outgrow a temper like that ” “She keeps it under good control, then I’ve heard you say yourself that she had a great deal of patience with the children.” “Os course. I never said she didn’t have it under control, did I ?—but it’s there all the same, you may depend.” “Testimony on the whole favorable to the accused,” summed up John. “Yes,” said his mother, thoughtfully. “Cecilia is conceited ; because she knows a good deal, she thinks no one can teach li *r anything; but she is a very capable girl. She has a wonderful notion of housekeeping for her ago and opportuni ties. Where she ever learned it passes me. 1 wish I could see some that arc nearer to me half as useful,” with a glance of mingled sorrow and reproof to wards her daughter. “Never mind, Emmy,” said her father, indulgently ; “ she’s got time enough yet” . “Yes, Mr. Gourlay, that’s just a man’s idea. Not but there might be time enough if she had any disposition. I wish I could hope that, three years from now, she would be anything like her cousin.” Poor Mrs. Gourlay, how little she un derstood what she was doing ! She lay awake; a loDg time that night, thinking over John’s merits, and laying plans for his future. He was to be a merchant prince, to wed a beauty and a fortune, to exalt the family name, and rejoice the family pride. Nothing was too good or too brilliant for him. She tried to see with her mind’s eye that superlative maiden who should be the presiding genius of his luxurious home, but could form only the vaguest outlines. No one she knew served her in any sort as a model; of course, nobody here was at all like what John would want ! And the son in his own room was thinking how pleasantly Cecilia welcomed him, what bright eyes she had, what a neat little hand, what a graceful move ment. He dwelt, too, on his morher’s praises. He was no stranger to the family spirit, and felt sure that, if she could admit so much, any unprejudiced person would say a great deal more. So it wont on. John’s destiny devel oped itself. For a time no one observed it. It was natural that all the young people should be together often at one house or the other—natural that John should sing with his cousin, or turn the music when she played. An unusually pleasant state of feeling sprung up be tween the two families. M rs. Gourlay thought of giving a party in John’s honor, and Cecilia was charmed with the idea. “Yes, aunt, aunt, do have it,” she said. “I’ll help you all I can.” Mrs. Gourlay’s impulse was to decline with coolness the proffered aid ; but. see ing how comfortable all the young folks seemed together, she softened a little. “Well,” she answered, quite gracious ly, “if I need assistance, I’ll remember you.” “I can make the ice-creams just as well as not,” continued Cecilia ; “you can have that off your mind entirely—-and the macaroons; they are rather fussy little things. And I w ill do anything else that you will let me do.” In fine, Mrs. Gourlay found her plan so warmly seconded, that the party, which had existed in her own mind only as a vague possibility, soon assumed a definite shape, and was fixed for a certain date. Cecilia tied a large white apron over her morning dres3, and, faithful to her promise, came over to help. Mrs. Gourlay watched her narrowly, nowise unwilling to discover faults, if faults there were ; but she was vanquished by the neat-handed, dexterous ways. “Well, Cecilia,” she said, with enthu siasm, as her niece removed from the oven an immense card of macaroons in the last perfection of crispness and browuness, “you’ll be a treasure to somebody, some day.” Cecilia colored, and John, who had been lingering about under pretence of getting more exact directions as to the quantity of ice, felt a mingled thrill of pleasure and embarrassment. What if lie should prove to be the very “some body ?” The fair baker was the first to recover composure “Will you have a macaroon, John ?” she asked, selecting two or three of the least comely specimens, and pre senting them on a little plate. “That's my plan with the children at home ; I bribe them with cakes to keep them out of the way.” She looked at him half saucily, half shyly; and the youth, before obeying her hint, managed to possess himself of the unoccupied hand, and give it a pressure very different from what he was wont to bestow ten years before. “How heated you look, child!” said Mrs. Gourlay, a moment after. “No wonder. The kitchen is like a furnace this warm morning.” The party came off in due season, and with gr%*ut eclat. Cecilia had made the frosting after a receipt of her own, viewed with much suspicion by her aunt, but justifying itself in the result; she cut the cake, adorned the table with flowers, brought over bouquets and vases from home—was, in short, the soul of the occasion. And, having done all this, she was as ready for enjoyment as any one when the festivities began. Mrs. Gourlay hardly knew her own house that night. It was the first large party she had ever given, and she had a novel sense of excitement and import ance. The state apartments and the staircase, usually so dark and silent, were bright as day, and fair forms were contin ually passing to and fro ; there was the hum of voices, the swell ol music, a charming confusion of glitter, and flowers, and harmony. Emma, as pretty as she was indolent, floated about in her white muslin, looking like a picture; John, manly and handsome, filled the mother’s heart with pride. For the first time in her life, Cecilia came in for a share of friendly admiration; Mrs. Gourlay thought that no one of the young ladies had so tasteful a dress or so good a manner. Supper, in regard to which some anxious forebodings had arisen, passed off t>*Pl )ily. Every one was well served ; all the edibles and fluids were in the highest style of art. And by and by the last adieus were made, and the last carriage rolled away. “A party is a great undertaking,” re marked Mrs. Gourlay to her husband, as she reviewed in her own room the event ful occasion, “but Cecilia relieved me of half the responsibility. No wouder Jane Maria calls her her right hand. She ought to be thankful for such a daughter.” “I presume she is,” said Mr. Gourlay. “Well, Martha, mv dear, there am others besides you that appreciate her.” “You mean Henry Barnes, 1 suppose. I’ve heard of that before, but I’m much mistaken if Cecilia will have a word to say to him.” “Henry Barnes, indeed ! You’ll have to try again, old lady. A great deal nearer home than that,” “Why, Mr. Gourlay !” cried the mother, in breathless excitement, as a strange light broke upon her, “you don’t—you can't— mean John!” But he did. And, what was more, John meant it; nor was Cecilia an un kind recipient of his views. It was a blow to Mrs. Gourlay. She had relented towards her niece in these latter days, it is true, but it did not follow that she was ready to endow her with her own choicest treasure. What a downfall of those lofty castles she had builded ! what a prosaic awakening from her brilliant visions! There were remonstrances, entreaties, against the contemplated sacrifice, but John stood firm. Cecilia, whom his boy hood had defied, was now sought as the choicest blessing of his maturer years ; she, in whose society lie refused to spend a single afternoon, would aloue suffice as the partner of his life. The mother was obliged to yield a sorrowful consent. The affair once settled, compensations arose, John would have a careful and energetic wife, at any rate ; no mere doll of fashion, who would waste his substance and neglect his comfort. Cecilia, with the unconscious hypocrisy of her position, was prettily deferential to the mother of her beloved; the twain took sweet counsel together in comparisons of experience, or interchange of receipts. The girl’s supe riority had once been a thorn in Mrs. Gourlay’s pillow, a painful reminder of Emma’s deficiencies; but Cecilia now belonged to her in part ; she herself could glory in every fresh achievement. So far did her complaisance at last ex tend, that she at times requested her niece to sing for her. “Cecilia hasn’t a powerful voice, I know,” she would observe; “but she uses what she has with excellent judg ment.” How long this pleasant state of things between the two would have endured— whether it would have stood the test of a lifelong residence in the same town —1 cannot say. In a few months the wed ding ensued, and the young pair removed to their own home in the distant city. By the withdrawal of her daughter’s pow erful aid, Jane Maria was reduced to something like her old place in the Valley of Humility,—a circumstance not unwel come to Mrs. Gourlay. John prospered in all to which he set his hand, and his dwelling was furnished in a style that far outshone anything his mother-in-law could boast. As these splendors wero due to her own side of the house, Mrs. Gourlay could admire them without bit terness or disparagement. And such changes did the years work, that she gradually came to quote the opinions of “John’s wife,” and the way in which “John’s people” managed things, as the admitted standard of propriety and ele gance. Father Ryan’s Paper.—The South ern Banner. —Scott Glore, book and newspaper dealer, and sole agent, in Louisville, for Father Ryan’s paper, pub lished at Augusta, Ga., has laid upon our table, the twelfth number of that publication. The author of the “Conquer ed Banner,” the Catholic Priest, the patriot, and christain gentleman, is the head and front of this literary, and po litical organ, sprung by his own endeav ers, in the midst of a people who are bankrupt in everything, save their honor, the preservation of which Father liyan has been “chief” in the front iinc. His love and sympathy are with the South ern people, and his respect is for the Democracy of the North, who are in ac cord with the sentiments he holds as pure and unsectional. To the unprejudiced, the “Banner of the South” will be in teresting—to others, perhaps, it will be unpalatable. We ask you to read it, and draw your own conclusions. Father Ryan seems to be as independ ent as those who may differ with him, and equally as charitable. The weekly edition will be furnished, by Mr. Glore, to those who wish it, at $3 per year. Louisville (Ky.) Democrat. [Fortlio Banner of tlie Safuflju] In Somno Pads. CT BSfIPKIiaWZA. Down by the river’s side, Afar from the noise and din Os crowded streets, and the tide Os human waifs therein— Close on their mother’s breast, Never with cares dlstre.sjwd, .. Sleep our beloved and blessed, In dreams of peace. Down by the river’s brink, O’ershadowcd by myrtle and palm, ' L Whose roots of the waters drink That flow to the ocean calm, Shrouded and coffined they lie. Pale as the mo6n in thy sky, Wan as the stars ere they die, In dreams of peace. Down by the river’s bank, All huddled in groups so sad, And covered with wild grass dank. Htill cuirassed and soldierly clad. Just as they fell on the field, Battling their loved ones to shield, Calmly their eyelids are sealed In dreams of peace. Down by the river’s flow, fio sad and with faltering tread, All draped in their weeds of woe, And silently weeping their dead; Mothers and sisters are seen. Brothers and lovers between. Mourning those sleepers serene, In dreams of peace. Down by the river’s waves, All ranged as in battle array, Those numberless, pitiless graves Are hiding our dear ones away; Oh! it is hard—it is hard, Thus from our dead to be barred, E’en though they sleep ’neath the sward In dreams of peace. Down by the river’s tide, Deep silence and night have come on, And mournfully, slowly—as glide Those shadows—the mourners have gone. Feverish earth is asleep, Angels their night-vigils keej) O’er the living and dead who sleep In dreams of peace. Pensacola, April, 1868. ♦ [For the Banner of the South,] THE TWO LITTLE GRAVES Near the city of Macon, lies Rose Ilill Cemetery. How shall 1 find words to de scribe this beautiful resting place of the dead ! Its quiet loveliness may not speak to your soul as it does to mine, for to me, it is a hallowed spot—the dearest this wide world contains—its bosom holds my dearest hopes—in it lie buried the bright est dream of my earthly happiness. Come with me ; I want to show you two little twin graves; and, if you’ll listen, I will tell you something of the little chil dren who lie beneath, and I will tell you of a mother’s love and sorrow. Perhaps it may teach you a lesson, as it did me, on the vanity of earthly hopes—that the most beautiful of homes can in a moment fall, wrecked, beneath the destroying hand of Death. Wc first enter a wide gate, and dowm a long avenue we come to the river Oemul gee. The murmuring voice of its waters, seems to sing a lullaby to the many sleep ers there hushed to rest in the long dream less sleep of death. Silently the river flows on, fearing, as it were, to disturb their repose, then, passing on, in the dis tance, you hear the glad sound of its falls, as it hurries on to the far-off ocean. Anon there comes to us another sound, a wailing and moaning, such as oft times comes from human hearts; but, ’tis only the sighing of the tall pines, stirred by the winds of heaven. Again, sweetest music is wafted to our car; the singing of the little birds, pouring forth their melo dy, quite unconscious of the mourners who weep so near them, at the grave of their loved and lost; their little throats are formed only to sing the praises of their Maker, and arc not attuned to human woe. We wander on, mid hill and dale. Here is a little valley quite shutout from the rays of the sun, so cool and se questered, that we long to throw our selves on the green turf, and dream of Heaven. Here are hills whose sides are covered with the dark green ivy, cling ing to the brown earth, and making it beautiful, with its verdure. Then, there are the long ferns ; which are striving to Hide from our view the lovely little wild flowers blooming beneath. We look upward, and grand old trees are towering above us; festoons of ivy, grace fully drooping from boughs reaching al most to the blue sky. Glancing through the deep shade of trees, you catch glimpses of lily-covered ponds, and here and there, are little rivulets, singing their way to the river, there to be lost in the sound of its waters. On we wander through the labyrinth of Nature’s beauties —all wild—all untouched by the hand of man—its very wildness and luxuriance insensibly lead the soul up to Nature’s God. We pause to look at a beautiful cross made ot evergreens and roses; how striking the design! the cross resting on the anchor, the emblem of hope; a wreath ol laurel encircles a littie tablet, and on it we read the words of a mother’s love mourning the loss of a noble son, yet re joicing that he died for his country. On one side, we see numberless grave.., side by sidej unmarked, often, by a single stone ; there is nothing to tell us of the sleepers beneath, and yet, unmarked as is this spot, it is one. j§jbiy dear to Southern hearts; it. is consecrated ground, f ( , r there lie our Confederate dead, our heroes, who died battling for freedom, and though they failed in the glorious cause, yet their very failure makes their mumorv dearer to us than would have been their most brilliant of victories. We pass on; death surrounds us on every side, and yet how strange, the very atmosphere of this place is so peaceful, so soothing, that our hearts seem to rest awhile from life's exciting turmoil, ..nr sorrows are lulled to sleep lor a while, and all terror of deatli is so completely lost, that we find stealing o’er us a long ing for the repose of the grave. As we pause in our wanderings, we see some white monument gleaming through the shadow of the cypress and the vine, and should we step aside we might see inscribed the name of some loved one, to whom this tablet has been erected by the hand of affection. But we cannot linger —we are seeking two little graves, lying side by side At last we have found them—they are the twin graves of two little sisters, who, united in life, were not divided in death. No monument is here, to tell us who sleep be neath this green sod. Apparently, there is nothing here to attract one—only a few flowers rest on these little mounds— a simple cross in evergreen tells us of a hope that lies buried there deep down in the earth ; but, ah! far deeper down in a mother’s heart. Did I say there was nothing to attract in this holy spot! Listen, and I will tell you the story of these little ones, sleeping in the cold embrace of death. It is a story which will be listened to by all bereaved mothers with sympathizing hearts, for it is the story of a mother’s love, and a mother's loss. I will call these little sisters Rose and Lily—the one so fair, so white, so pure, you could think of nothing on this earth, like her, save the stainless Lily. The other bright and blooming like the Rose. The one “ Witli meek brown air, In whose depths a shadow lies,” those spiritual eyes, those chiseled fea tures, so sweetly sad, so very lovely : a you looked at her face, you imagined how angels’ faces might look. The other wreathed in smiles and dimples, r«»y and blushing as a young Aurora. S.. looked these children, as they walked on this earth. They stayed but a very low fleeting years; the one but seven; the other scarce live. Ah ! with what devoted love, and yearn ing tenderness, does the mother now look back upon those years, in which these little darlings were nestled so closely to her heart ; nourished so tenderly in 1 r bosom. Their memory lives silently in the bottom of her heart, like pearls in tu. depths of the sea. She realizes now, that God only lent them to her for a lithe while; that Heaven was their home; an i though she clung to them with all tn strength of a mother’s love, she could not keep them when the angels called then With tears of joy she had welcomed them to this sorrowing world ; but, ah ! vritL tears of anguish, she dismissed them back to Heaven. How unselfish the joy, h-w selfish the sorrow ! She r emeu To every incident of their little lives, ; • she feels that her babes were Ohri-t --little ones, walking beside her in wir raiment only her eyes were holden. - she might not know them. There was a love between Lily an Rose that was touching in its very dev • tion—theirs were two hearts moulded one. You listened to the music of th.-:r merry voices in sport and play, and nee. jarred on your ear one note of disco! all their playthings were in common-" nothing was mine, everything was Thus they played the livelong day, n • weary, never tired. They stood togcil. at their mother’s knee, conning o’er tie lirtle lessons—they knelt together at tm mother’s knee, to recite their daily p er; and as the mother would gaz>' at t little upturned faces of her darlings ‘ rapt in devotion, with a mothei ’s eye. i none other could see it, stie saw aroii • their fair heads the aureola of light. -• as encircles the heads of Saints. At n - lay locked in each others ann?: sweet and innocent, did they look their repose, you imagined they v listening to some happy voice within tn hearts, llow often did the mother "g --by their couch; and, as site watched m gentle slumbers, she would dream their future —how, in years to eeuo they were to be her blessing, the '^ [lt her life, just as they now were. This poor mother had suffered m 1 she had experienced sorrows which 1 \ owed her past, clouded the brightuc-
