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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.