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VOL. I.
[Dor the Dr.uuer of the South.]
MEMOBIAL.
A hundrcfl thotisaud graves
In I>< auteouH flowers lie deck’d,
\nd thrice ten hundred thousand eyes
The solemn scene reflect
Such is the deathless love
Deep shrined within our hearts,
v love that spurns the tyrant’s chain.
And baffles all his arts—
Love for the gallant souls
That perished for our cause,
And t’ouxrs to deck their hallowed graves.
And (ears for their applause.
I glanced from the lowly mounds,
And groups of maidens fair,
Away to the mournful bending skies.
Where their proud spirits are.
And I seemed to set: each face,
With angel faces framed.
Lit up with a tender, radiant joy,
And a glory all unnamed.
And I felt that they above
All mortal men are bli st,
Whose graves are bedewed with woman’s tears,
By woman’s hand caressed.
Bi v ImUt, No. Ca„ May ‘lUh, 1868.
THE JEWELED * SNUFF-BGX.
|CONCLUDED. |
ir.
“Lai din sight ' Wliat magic there
is in those words as they fly from lip to
lip ou board a homeward-bound vessel,
blow the passengers ejme crowding up
to catch the first glimpse of England,*
nearing momentarily; wliat agitated
grasps of the hand theic arc between new
triends, what reconciliations between an
cient foes! Watch for a moment the
deck oi the Flying* Cloud home ward
bound from the Australian gold-diggings.
Yonder is a man, the centre of unexcited
group ; he is the fortunate possessor of n
good binocular, an invaluable treasure at
•such a moment. On this side sits a
woman who, one may tell, from her deep*
mourning, has laid her husband to rest
in that distant land ; she strives in vain
to see the coast with eyes blurred and
dimmed with tears. Here is a boy on
his way home for education in the old
country ; one may be sure, by the bright
outlook lie keeps, that the prospect before
lum is pleasant! There stands a man
who left England so many years ago,
that he is wondering whether any will be
ahve to greet him on his return. Ah,
wliat. hopes, what fears, what beating
hear's, and straining eyes, the good ship
hears along as she conies bounding home
to England!
In the midst of such a scene, four years
a iter the events narrated in the last
chapter, a husband and wife were standing
together, quietly and earnestly gazing
towards land. The woman’s face was
ptile and calm, but a wistful look in the
grey eyes, and some deep lines about the
mouth, told their story of past trouble.
Her husband, a bale, burly north-coun
iiyinan, from the class, perhaps, of yeo
man farmers, looked as if uo cloud had
ever rested on his handsome face ; both
wore plainly, but well dressed. “Well,”
die man was saying, “I’ve come back to
oid .m gland a sight richer than I left it,
thats certain, that last haul did my
business, and glad enough I shall be to
be safe at home again then, as his wife
did not immediately reply, he added,
kmdly : “Come, cheer up, Jane. I know
what you’re thinking of ; but you needn’t
be so down-hearted. Were sure to find
him.”
‘ Ah, I donff know,” the woman said,
sadiy, "he may be dead and gone by this
dme, poor darling. If lie's alive, he must
bo seven, now. My baby, my baby, how
m»ukl I leave him !”
ttrr.
? -Viell, my girl. ] wonder at it,” replied
ma nan in his hearty voice. “You have
v Hick to Lnn v i know, as long as you had
a bit oi bread to put into his mouth ; and
" H n y» u hadn't I don't know but what
you did the best you oould for him.”
The woman looked up gratefully to her
big husband, but tears filled her eyes.
Ene took the great brown hand and
stroked it, saying, softly. “You are sure
you forgive everything that went before—
before J left England ? ’
“\\ h}’ wliat are you talking about,
Jenny ! Didn’t 1 tell you tiie day we
married that bygones should be bygones;
oh, little woman ? and haven’t you been
the best of wives to mo for three years
since then It’s just the sight of England
makes you foolish and nervous-like.
You'll be all right as soon as we get
there.” There was a little pause, and
then the wife said, timidly—
“liarry—f ve never told you exactly
how I came to leave my bale,, and to —
to take the.box. I should like to tell
you now.”
“Well, my dear," he answered, without
a shadow crossing his face, “tell me now,
if it will be any comfort to you ; but. don’t
feel obliged to.”
“No,” she replied, drumming softly
with her fingers upon flic side of the ves
sel, “I should like to do it. After—after
he descried me, you know, we really were
starving’, my baby* and 1. That morning
we had been wandering about all night in
the cold, and he cried for bread, and 1
had none to give him. Ah, me ! 1 can
hear that little cry now! At last, we
came near the railway station, and I
could see the warm fire through the wait
u g room ; I thought my baby would die
soon, if be wasn't fed, and ad the couVage
went out of me. 1 put hire, down by the
entrance, thinking perhaps some passen
ger might take pity on him. And then I
watched, under cover of the darkness,
and saw them take him to the workhouse,
0, what a Miserable, miserable place for a
little child !”
“My poor girl P said her husband
compassionately, as she stopped, choked
by her tears.
“The next day I was prowling about
near the workhouse—f couldn’t go far
from it, it always seemed to pull me back
when I came to a jeweler’s shop, where
a lady was going in with a snuff-box to
be mended. I could see her unfolding
the parcel, and then the jewels sparkling
upon it. I longed for the food that it
would have bought, and thought how cruel
God was to give her that splendid costly
thing, and to take my baby, my only
treasure, from me.”
She waited a moment, and then went
on, her eyes fixed upon the dim outline of
the distant shore. “The shopman left the
shop, and the lady walked towards the
door holding the box. I don't know wliat
possessed me then. I rushed in, and
snatched it out of her hand, and ran
away. There was a hue and cry for
police, and the next moment I could hear
them behind me. I. tried to go faster, but
on turning a corner I rau up hard against
a man. It stopped me, and then the
horror came upon me of feeling myself a
thief, f had never stoleu a crumb be
fore. I ccuid not give myself up, and be
dragged to prison, but I slipped the box
into the man’s pocket, and rau on. I
thought ho would feel it drop, and give it
directly to the policeman ”
“And you are sure that was the same
man who took little Johnny ?” asked the
husband ; “it hardly seems likely.”
“I am sure ; his name was Timmins,
too,” she answered : “it was given in the
paper, with the account of his having
claimed the reward. I saw it after I got
to Australia."
"M hat made you think of going
there?”
“YY ell, when 1 knew teat my bov was
safe out of the workhouse, I determined
not to d.e as 1 had thought I should, but to
try and live for his sake. Free passages
to Melbourne were being offered then to
women and girls, and i resolved to go
away and earn money somehow to eup-
P olt kirn. I’ve never heard of him since.
I wonder why they have never answered
my letters.”
AUGUSTA, Q-Jl., MAY 30, 1868.
“i’ou wrote to the wrong place, most
likeiy, suggested the husband ; “how
ever, it was lucky you remembered the
jeweler’s address all right, for if he hadn’t
acknowledged the receipt of the twenty
pounds we refunded, end promised not to
prosecute, we couldn't be here ; but as to
Johnny, you’ll see, Jane. We’ll find him
eiil , and we’ll have him home, and bring
iiiiri up to be honest and true, end we’ll
find means to reward those that have been
kind to him, never you fear.” and he
stooped down and kissed her.
Urns it was that the mother of the
doSv rted child returned to England—the
happy, respected wife of an upright and
successful man, yet yearning for her lost
darling with a longing that never failed
or grew dim Daily, during the home
ward voyage, she had pictured the meet
ing between herseli and her boy, until she
could almost icel the clasp of his arms round
her neck, but as the Flying Cloud neared
England, a miserable restlessness took
possession of her—a sick fear lest she
shouid not find her child. Her husband
was very kind, very tender with her. hut
he had no power to still the terror that
filled the mother’s soul. It was ou a
rainy morning early in Christmas week,
that Henry Boultby, the fortunate gold
digger, and his pale wife, landed at
Wapping, and as soon as they had de
posited their luggage, they started to
gether to seek fur the Timmins’. They
went first to the old lodgings to which
Johnny had been traced by his mother.
The door was opened by a man whose
aushed cheeks and jovial smile told, even
move plainly than the sprig of mistletoe
in his button-hole, that he had just risen
from some Christinas festivity.
“Walk in,” said he, civilly, 'when he
had heard their query, “and i’ll inquire.”
He did so, and a pleasant, chatty woman
came out, with a baby in her arms. “It
you please, ma’am,” she said, “the Tim
mins's left here three years ago and
more. My husband was made one of the
Inspectors to the G. 0. Company wiien
Mr. Timmins got into trouble, and as lie
couldn’t afford to keep lodgings, we took
’em off his hands.”
Henry Boultby turned to smile cheerily
at his wife before he asked, “Wliat trouble
was it ?”
“Why, sir, I don't know that 1 can
rightly tell you, It was something about
a gold snuff-box that Mr. Timmins was
thought to have stolen, and he was dis
missed from the Company’s service. His
character was cleared afterwards by
some letter from Australia, and my hus
band said the Company would have given
him another situation, but they never
could trace him. But lor, ma’am,” she
exclaimed, suddenly breaking off, “do let
me get you a chair. You look ready to
drop.”
Henry Boultby scarcely waited to
thank the astonished woman for her in
formation, before he bore his wife to the
cab that waited at the door. She cowered
in the corner of it, and shivered as if with
cold, but said never a word.
’ Don t take on so,” Jenny, urged her
husband, drawing her shawl more closely
around her, “for my sake,don’t. You
couldn t dream you were doing him such
an injury, and wc shall find them, I’m
sure. Try to think of some other place
where they may be heard of.”
She shook her head hopelessly at first,
but after a moment said eagerly, “K
\\ orkhouse ! they might know there.”
Thither the cabman drove, and, upon
inquiry, it appeared that the return of
the basket which had contained Mrs.
Timmins’ Christmas gifts had occasioned
a second direction to be given. It had
been sent by post, and. after a long
delay, was forthcoming. After that it was
only a matter of time to follow up the
track. The Boultbys drove from parish
to parish, from lodging to lodging, eaoh a
degree poorer and shabbier thaiTthe last,
to be met everywhere with the same sad
story : “He couldn’t get no work, so they
had to give up the rooms.” Jane Boult
1 by's pale face grew paler and paler, and
! her lips became parched and dry. Every
! now and then her husband laid his broad
hand encouragingly on hers, but few
I words were spoken. At length the cab
j stopped at the bottom of a wretched alley
in one of the purlieus of London ; a foul,
j reeking, loathsome place. Miserable
i children, in damp rags, were lying about,
| and here and there the voice of a drunken
woman, quarreling with her neighbor
| sounded loud and shrill.
J The rain was falling fast, but Mrs.
j Boultby did not seem to feel it. She
walked on quickly, unheeding the curious
! glances turned on her and her well dressed
| husband, until they reached a dilapidated
I house, at whose open door a knot of dirty
men were lounging. The often-repeated
j question was this time answered in the
I affirmative. Yes, they were here. Fallen
as low as this! The Boultbys mounted
: the filthy stairs, swarming at every flight
I with squalid children, up and up till they
I reached the topmost garret. Here they
, knocked, and in a minute a woman came
, out, closing the door behind her. A
. woman—but could that lean, care-worn
creature, with untidy hair and threadbare
i clothes that hung loosely about her
; pinched figure, could that really be the
! onny, comely Airs. Timmins of old
| days .' Jane Boultby was past speaking
,by tliis time ; her knees were shaking
! under her ; she could hardly stand, but
: she signed to her husband to tell her
I story. He did so at once, in a frank,
j manly way, standing all the time- in the.
| dreary passage. He touched tenderly
upon the various incidents, but he omitted
: nothing, and he ended by humbly en
. treating forgiveness for Ins wife. His
i listener heard him in entire silence, and
| as he paused, a wailing voice called from
; within : “Mother, mother, do come!”
Mrs. Timmins turned without a word,
! and hurried back, leaving the door wide
open. The Boultbys followed her. There
was not an atom of furniture in the
wretched room, except two straw pallets,
and some old boxes which served as
seats ; no signs of food, no fire on that
bitter day. On the floor beside the empty
grate crouched two boys of nine and ten,
while a girl, a year or two older, was
trying to infuse some of her own vital
warmth into a little child of four. They
were all dark-haired, and Mrs. Boultby’s
! eye passed them, and went to where Mrs.
: Timmins was bending over a pillow of
! straw on which a little golden head was
j lying. The mother could not restrain
herself any longer. She fit w across the
room, and threw herself on her knees by
the side of a pallet. “My baby, my
baby!” she cried. Johnny opened his
blue eyes, with a look of wonder, but did
not speak.
“ITe is dying,” hoarsely whispered Mrs.
j Timmins, “dying of hunger.”
j For one moment Mrs. Boultby turned
away her eyes from her child. “Fetch
! food,” she motioned with her lips to her
I husband ; and he was gone in a moment.
There was silence in the room till his
return, both women brooding over the
child. At last he came, laden with all
that he had been able to seize in a raid of
two minutes upon the pastry cook’s, and
followed by a boy bearing a steaming
can of soup. The children on the floor
looked up, and a ray of hope shone upon
their white faces. Mrs. Timmins held a
spoonful of soup to Johnny’s mouth, and
his mother raised his head. A kind of
stupor seemed to have crept over him,
but he swallowed the soup, and one or
two spoonfuls more, and then as they
| laid him down, a light came into the blue
eyes, and a murmur from the childish
1 lips—“ Thy will be done. Forgive us our
trespasses as we—.” It was the right
word. It touched the heart strings of j
both his hearers.
With a flood of tears, Mrs. Timmins j
i held out her hand to the woman who had i
! been the cause of her husband's ruin,
; saying, “God bless you for having come
in time to save him: be is like my own.
I forgive you for his sake.” And the
two women embraced and kissed each
other by too side of the child’s poverty
stricken bed.
The sun rose bright and clear on
Christmas Day. About noon, Henry
Boultby carried little weak Johnny in his
strong arms to a warm, cheery lodging,
in a healthy neighborhood. Most of the
family had moved some hours before, so
as to be ready to receive him, and the
child looked round with amazement, when
he had been softly laid on the little white
bed in the corner. Mrs. Boultby had
decked the room with holly and mistletoe
houghs, a cosy fire was crackling out its
welcome, a kettle was singing on the hob,
and the table was spread for the dinner
that was already sending out savory
whiffs from the adjoining kitchen. Mrs.
Timmins was there, already beginning to
smile and beam again, surrounded by her
children in beautiful warm winter dresses,
and Mrs. Boultby waiting on them all.
Johnny’s ideas were vague as to the rela
tionship in which she stood to him, but
he had no objection to find a second
mother in the loving woman who
had watched and petted him so ten
derly.
Presently, in came Mr. Timmins, who
had been forbidden to make his appear
ance earlier, and his astonishment was a
sight worth seeing. An arm-chair had
been drawn up to the fireplace, and Henry
Boultby’s cheery voice invited him into
it. As he was about to sit down, he
found n bundle lying on the seat, biit he
almost let it drop .again when he saw
what it contained. Os all things in the
world, a bran-new Railway Inspector’s
uniform !
“Yes, you are honorably reinstated,”
Henry Boultby was saying, when he re
covered from his stupefaction. “I wish
you joy, lin sure. Now, little woman,
let’s have dinner.”
They had dinner, and such a dinner!
There wa3 a turkey, of course, and there
was roast heel, and there were sausages,
and mince-pies, and a blazing plum-pud
ding. and all the delicacies that ever were
thought of. And what delight Mrs.
Boultby seemed to take in popping these
dainties first upon the plate of one and
then of another, and how both she and
Mrs. Timmins kept jumping up to carry
tit-bits to little Johnny, and to see that
he had everything he could want. The
children, poor things, were very quiet at
first; they were not used to merriment,
and Mr. and Mrs. Timmins, though their
hearts were brimful of glad thankfulness,
were hardly prepared to be more than
cheerful. They had not had time to
realize that their sore trial was really
over. But the very spirit of Christmas
seemed to shine out of Henry Boultby’s
eyes, and to illumine his good-humored
face; he was resolved upon fun, and lie
was not a man to be daunted.
Bless you ! the stories that he told, the
j'dies that he made, the absurdities that
he perpetrated at that dinner would fill a
volume, and the children began first to
smile, and then to laugh, until, upon the
magnificent apparition of the pudding,
decked with holly, and spouting fire with
all its might, he actually extracted a
genuine shout of baby glee from the
youngest, which rejoiced its mother’s ears,
and of which he was proud as man could
be. The Boultbys were in no hurry.
They had taken rooms in the same
house and meant to live there, so as to be
with Johnny without separating him from
his friends. And when at last dinner
came to an end, and the table was pushed
close to the little boy’s bedside, and the
family gathered round it, it is my opinion
that though there might bo many noisier,
there was not a happier set of people to
be round anywhere in England. Henry
Boultby concocted in the most artful way
a steaming bowl of punch, aud over it
they shook hands all round, and wished
each other, as I wish to you, my reader, a
merry Christmas and a happy New Year,
and many, many to come.
No. 11.
