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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-