The Louisiana Democrat

ANNIVERSARIES.

Years agone, ere the dogs of war were loose on this unhappy land, the Fourth of July was the annual festival we most delighted to honor. With what a grand fanfare of preparation the day was ushered in! What firing of cannon—waving of banners—shouting of drunken patriots—and speechifying of unfledged orators! What feasting under green shady booths on fat barbecued pigs, pound cake, apple pie, and all the good things of all the good housewives in the neighborhood who each considered it a privilege to contribute to a Fourth of July celebration. We remember once in our enthusiastic youth getting up before day light to see the morning break on Independence Day. We thought it would be something to brag of that we had seen the sun rise on that glorious morn, whose splendor, we thought, far eclipsed his brightness. Now-a-days, we are not quite so proud of it—nay, it is to our mind associated with memories of inextinguishable bitterness as being the anniversary of the fall of Vicksburg. Hereafter, let who will celebrate the "Glorious Fourth"—we prefer to remain quietly at home, and ignore it. The annual Catholic festival of All Saints has a peculiar holy beauty in our eyes. The custom of every one visiting on that day the graves of their dead and strewing them with memorial flowers is inexpressibly touching. Surely all who enter that still sanctuary of the soul must leave it with minds purified from the petty strifes and rancors and jealousies of every day life—with hearts ennobled above the sordid cares and vain ambitions of this world. But besides these commemorative days common to all there are many anniversaries of the heart known only to ourselves—footprints of Time marked in our private calendar, some with a white, more perhaps with a black stone. One of our earliest recollections is of a certain birthday fete—the only one we believe ever organised in our honor—at the mature age of three; and which had a most tragic termination. Somehow we got an inkling that sundry festival preparations were in progress, and in particular that certain iced cakes had been deposited in a retired part of the garden to dry. The spirit of Eve immediately possessed her remote descendant, and we surreptitiously introduced our small self into the garden for the express purpose of viewing near at hand these triumphs of the culinary art of which we had heard so much. How temptingly beautiful they looked all spread out in long white rows! It was irresistible—nearer and nearer approached curious little fingers and toes on their errand of investigation, and alas! both left indelible tokens of their visit in the sullied and broken whiteness of pound cakes, sponge cakes, drop cakes, and snow balls—the last no longer worthy of their name which had become a sad misnomer. Of the dire consequences that ensued, when our visit and its dire consequences were discovered, we forbear to speak—the recollection is a sore one even now. What pleasant recollections cluster round the anniversary of a girl's first ball! the long-anticipated evening when the young debutante steps forth on the stage of life that is all garlanded with flowers; and whose scenery is everywhere couleur de rose for her. How often do her retrospective dreams both by day and night bring back that scene—the lights, the flowers, the gay music, the brilliant forms, her own not the least fair amid the throng; and last, though by no means least, the admiring partners. In after years of womanhood's cares and sorrows her world-wearied spirit flies back to that night, and is refreshed by a sweet draught from the sunny fountain of youth. By and by comes a day whose annual return is to be always remembered and celebrated with rapturous joy and thanksgiving—it is the anniversary of our wedding day. Brightly shone the sun upon that bridal morn, and if true the proverb "Happy is the bride the sun shines on," then shall our lot in life be blessed indeed. How each return of that blissful day shall be welcomed—each one perhaps bringing some new claimant to our love. But ah, not many cycles have rolled around ere the doom of mortality, change or death has entered our Eden and withered all its blooms! The anniversary of the first child's birth day—the little heaven-sent to crown our before uncompleted joys—has come round; but instead of festivity and mirth there is lamentation and weeping—"Rachel weeping for her children, and will not be comforted because they are not." A small white coffin has been borne to the burial ground, and in its narrow bounds are enclosed all the light and joy that once brightened the desolate home. Hereafter that anniversary will be kept with tears. And our wedding day that is to be celebrated each year with increase of joy and gladness, until in fullness of time we keep our silver and our golden wedding—how is it in a few short years? Perhaps estrangement and disunion have crept between those hearts once so fondly united—perhaps a more hopeless separation has come. A lonely figure robed in the deepest black crouching over the cold hearth where the "ashes of desolation" have thickly gathered—a mournful voice sobbing "Ten years ago to-night I wore my bridal robes, and now I wear my widow's weeds!" these sad tokens—tell of an eternal parting. But no—thank God, not eternal! Beyond all the chance and change of this vanishing world—beyond Death, beyond Time—there lies a fair and happy land

"Where those who loved when here Shall meet to love again."

There husband and wife, parent and child, shall celebrate together the blissful anniversaries of reunion through the countless years of an unwasting eternity.