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mm~*d^*' m ' ~ ' 11 -" r 1 ~ ' —■ "-r ■ " '" ' " **» VOL. 111. [For the Banner of the South.] Life- BY MOLNA. A baby played with the surplice sleeve Os a gentle Priest—while in accents low The sponsors murmured the grand “I be lieve,” And the Priest bade the mystic waters flow— “In the name of the Father of the Son, And of Holy Spirit”—Three in One. Spotless as a lily's leaf! Whiter than the Christmas snow! Not a shade of sin or grief— And the Babe laughed sweet and low. A smile flitted over the Baby’s face— Or was it the gleam of its angel's wing Just passing then ? and leaving a trace. Os its presence, as it soared to sing A hymn, when words and waters win To grace and life—a child of sin. Not an outward sign or token That the child was saved from woe— But the bonds of sin were broken, And the Babe laughed sweet and low. A cloud rose up to the Mother's eyes— And out of the cloud grief’s rain fell fast; Came the Baby’s smiles and the Mother’s I CV A Out of the Future, or the Past ? Ah ! gleam and gloom must ever meet And gall must mingle with the sweet! Yea! upon her Baby's laughter Trickled tears —’tis always so— Mothers dread the dark Hereafter ; But her Babe laughed sweet and low. And the years, like waves, broke on the shore Os the Mother’s heart, and her Baby's life; — But her lone heart drifted away before Her little boy knew an Lour of strife ! Drifted away on a Summer eve Ere the orphaned boy knew bow to grieve. Her bumble grave was gently made Where roses bloomed in Summer's glow ; The wild birds sang where her heart was laid; And Iter Boy—laughed sweet and low. He floated away from his Mother’s grave Like a fragile flower on a bright stream’s tide; Till he heard the moan of the mighty wave That welcomed the stream to the ocean wide! Out from the shore, and over the deep, He sailed away—and he learned to weep! Furrowed grew the face, once fair Fmler storms of human woe: Silver-grey the bright, brown tiair; And he wailed so sad and low. And years swept on, as erst they swept; Bright wavelets once —wild billows now; Wherever he sailed —he ever wept And a cloud hung o’er his brow. Over the deep, and into the'dark ; But no one knew where sank his bark. Wild roses watched the Mother's tomb The world still laughed—'tis ever so; God only knew' the Baby’s doom That laughed so sweet and low ! June '24th. ONE OUT OF FOE ft. A run down to the coast, a sniff of sea air and a bath are not bad refreshers and restoratives after hard work and anxiety in London ; at least I thought so as I Started from Victoria with a headache, a leather-bag, and a firm intention of spend ing a day at the Warden at Dover. I spent some hours lazily on the shin gle, throwing pebbles into the water, and watching the lings as they rippled to the land or died away out to sea, till the cravings of a sharpened appetite drove me to the nearest inn. It was not in any respect like the Warden, but it was able to supply my frugal wants in the usual British fashion. When the sun was rising in the West, casting long shadows upon the shore and tinging the white sails with red, I lit a cigar and strolled out along the sea, away from the town. The rows and terraces of brick ceased; the houses first became semi-detached —then detached-then strag gling ; and I soon came to the last cot tage. It was surrounded by a garden a few yards wide, which at one time had been carefully ornamented with paths of sifted shingle, large nodules of flint, shells and other homely decorations. But it was now neglected; the borders were over grown, the flowers dead, and patches of long tangled grass reminded me of a for. gotten grave. Two small windows in the cottage overlooked the beach and re flected the rays of the evening sun. The whitewashed walls sloped to the eastward, as if they had yielded to the winds that had blown against them for more than a century, while the thatch on the roof was drv and shining. CD 9 The door stood open, and I looked m. The outer room served as a boatman's storehouse, and was nearly full of boat’s gear. Old sails, blocks acid tackles, and tar-brushes were numerous; coils of rope hung on the walls, together with oil skin coats, lanterns, pots of pitch, and nets in various states of repair, while the floor was strewn with broken oars and pieces of drift-wood, probably cast up during the gales that sweep that dreary coast every winter. The inner room was clean and neat; seme nautical matures hung over the mantel-piece, and a clock with a melan choly face ticked in the corner. Though the weather was hot, a fire was burning, or rather smouldering, in a little stove, by the side of which stood a vacant chair. As I entered, an old man, who sat at the window, looking listlessly out to sea, raised his eyes. “Will you let me take a light my I friend ?” “Certainly, sir,” said he, rising and stirring the coals in the ship's stove, the chimney pipe of which passed out of one of the windows. The old man, as he stood up, looked very much like the cottage he lived in. In his day he had been upright and strong; but age, hard work and rough weather had bent him earthward. His silvery hair was dry and thin like the thatch, and his gray, dreamy eyes reflect ed the sunlight, and seemed to be “With his heart, and that was far away.” I asked him if he lived all alone. “I do now, sir, since my old woman died —two years ago this coming Christ mas.” “Don't you feel dull all by yourself?” “It is very lonely like; but I don't care to see people much now, they’re all so busy with their own concerns. I was busy, too, sir, once.” Here the old fellow hung his head and sighed. As he paused I answered that there were many 7 people' who were not altogether taken up with their own affairs, and who would be glad to come and cheer him up and chat with him. “Well, sir, the parson does come to me sometimes. He is a blind mau and was good to me in my trouble—l like to hear his step at the door. He don’t talk one to death. lie tells me what I can understand —for I'm no scholar—he tells me we shall meet up above with those we've been parted from down here.” He seemed quite overcome by the few words lie had said, and his eyes were full of tears as he turned to the window and stood for some time gazing silently out to sea. How I pitied this solitary man in his old age, bereft of his helpmate. He seemed so sad, and yet so resigned and hopeful. 1 felt a great wish to hear AUGUSTA, a A., JULY 9, 1870. something more of his life ; but I did not like to press him to tell me his history just then, so I continued puffing my cigar in silence, to give him time to recover his serenity. After a long pause he began again, and I listened. “This time two years ago, sir, my great trouble chine upon me ; I can’t get over it, and never shall now. Every time the fall of the year comes round, and the leaves begin to drop, and the wind to roar at night, I seem to live it all over again.” “It is two years, is it, since your poor wife died !” “It is two years, sir, since my wife and my boy Joe and me lived here together. Them two boats as you see a little way down the beach were ours then. We had a third, too, a ‘galley punt;’ but iv’e sold them two now, for I shall never go afloat again. My boy 7 and I could get a good living out of them. There was not much doing in Summer time, nor yet in smooth weather, but we used to go out with the lines or the nets; and some times we’d make a good take of mackerel, and sell many score of them to the Lon don people. And so we rubbed along, and now and then Joe would get a job to pilot a vessel up channel. “The Summer is always our hard time. It’s our Winter, you see, sir, and we are more like to knock at the work-house door in mid-Summcr than we are at Christmas. “We are not like the shore-going peo ple. We reap our harvest oft the sea, and the rougher it is the better crops we get, you know. “Joe was a first-rate seaman and a regular pilot he was, and as fine a lad as ever stepped on the forecastle of a ship. He was but twenty-four, and never saw the like of him, though he was my son— and a good son, too, to his old mother and me. He had never given us a day’s trouble in all his life; and, Lor’, how we did love that boy, sir ! he was our all— our all, he was ! “There was not a boatman nor a pilot in the Channel as could come near him. He knew the coast all about as well as be did the path up to this cottage door, lie could take a vessel anywhere. If lie missed his port and was driven to leeward, he knew what to do—where iie could anchor, all the shoals, and tides and cur rents, and all the rest of it; and as for handling a boat, it was a sight to see Joe in a gale of wind. He was always first when there was a job to be had. And whenever that bell out yonder used to ring—l mean the bell that calls together the crew to man the life-boat—he was first, into her when there was a chance of saving life, and nothing to be got by it but perhaps to lose his own. Ail, there’s many a poor fellow would be a float ing about on his face now in the green water if it hadn’t been for Joe. “lie was our only child, sir, and he loved his mother and me, he did, and worked hard for us both. He didn’t care a bit for himself. He was always want ing me to stay at ashore. ‘Father’ he used to say, “you’re getting too old for rough water. You must lay up. You shall do the Summer work and leave the Winter to me.’ But though I knew Joe would have worked till he dropped for us, I wasn’t the man to give up—though I was old—as long as I could keep going. “We got through many hard Summers and long spells of what folks call fine weather, till the sky began to look dark and the rain to drive and the wind to roar; then tho ship mould run up channel and signal for pilots, want anchors and chains and all kinds of gear. Then our good time would begin—they couldn’t do without us then. Joe and I and two or three more of us used to put off through the surf, and many’ a good bit of work we've had ’o Winter nights, and shared sometimes five, and may be teD, pound a man. A few jobs like that, you know, would help to keep us through the dull time. “Well, sir, it was one day in Septem ber, as it might be now. We’d had smooth weather for near two months— there was nothing doing. Joe and a lot of ’em was lying about tbe beach in the sun, grumbling dreadful. “Curse this fine weather, father ; if it lasts much longer it will be the ruin of us. No ships coming up Channel. Those that do don’t want us ; they’d rather find their own way about than pay 7 for a pilot. If they’ve got one aboard and want to land him, they’ll send him ashore in their own boat rather than give us a chance of earning a shilling or two. I call that sneaking, I do. Then in Winter, when they’ve sprung a leak, or have g*t upon the sand and want help, they’ll pretty nigh go on their kaees to us then, they 7 will. Sunshine in ne day and moonlight at night, and a light breeze, is a bad look-out, ain’t i* father ?” “Never mb* my T boy, says I. Don’t you curse no ither ;it all comes from God Almighf ,f it ain’t good for us, its good for others. We can’t have it all our own way.” “Then Joe would say, “It’s only for you and mother as I want work. I can’t abide to see you put to it for every pipe of tobacco as if you could’nt afford it.” And then he’d set up whistling, and he’d go oil to see Mary Scott. He was in love with her, and had been for many years; and the old mother and I used to think he’d make her a good husband, and that she was in luck—though we didn’t somehow care much about her. She wasn’t staunch enough for such a steady good lad as our Joe ; but he did not think so. They had been children together, and never had been apart since they used to go out with their bare feet to look for mussles on the rocks, or far away on the sand at low tide to dig for bait for the lines. She always said she would have no one but him. But as she grew up, the old mother and I thought she did not care so much for our boy, and seemed to be ‘on’ with Tom Williams. Well, Tom is a fine fellow, too, and a friend of my 7 son’s. They worked together for ten years or more, and never fell out once. They were both in the life-boat on that wild night when the Indians came ashore at Dungencss, and the French Chasse Marce was on the Goodwins, burning blue lights and tar barrels, and going to pieces fast. Tom nearly lost his life that time, for lie got washed out of the life boat just as they had taken the last Frenchman aboard. But Joe caught him by tbc arm as be was going to make his last dive, and held on like a vice. “ ‘I wouldn’t have let Tom go, father,’ says he, ‘no, not if he’d pulled me over board too. I’d have died first.’ ” “0, he was a brave lad, sir !” “Well, it came to the 10th of Septem ber, the weather had changed to a regular Channel gale—blowing hard. The sky was dark, the color of lead, and running high—rain and sleet driving right across you. I was ill, 1 was then, and my old woman wouldn’t let me go out to sea; so I lay by for a day or two. “We were all ready with the gear in the boats, and Joe and the crew, four on ’em altogether, was watching night and day. I was at the window 7 here, with the glass to my eye, looking at every ship through the baza as she hove in sight. About an hour after daylight in the morning, Joe sprang up and sang out, ‘Look, father, there’s a brig with a flag at the fore 1” That means that they want a pilot, you know 7 , sir. Whenever a ship hoists a flag at the foretopmastheau, you'll see the men run out like mad, and tear down the beach with the boats into the surf in a moment. A vessel always takes the first pilot that comes out to her; and if you’re not quick you don’t get nothing. In a second they had loosed the galley punt and run her down the shiDgle ; the men sprang in, and I seen Joe give her the last shove off and leap in at the stern, with the water running off his great boots. As soon as they were clear of the shore, they hoisted their sail and tore through the sea toward the brig. George Bell’s lugger was only a little way astern of them ; but the other sailed closer to the wind, and I could see Joe could board the brig first. “I stood with the glass watching his boat from this window—just as I stand now, sir. There’s the glass on the man tlepiece. My old wife was looking out too, poor old soul ! Says I, ‘I think Joe has got rather too much canvas.’ I was always nervous when I wasn’t along with him, though he was a better boatman than I was; but we couldn’t bear him out of our sight, neither of us. “The galley-punt was well ahead of the lugger, but she seemed to plunge into the waves, she did not rise as I have liked to see her ; and, Lor’, how she did roll ! first over to windward, and then she’d catch the gale and bow down t’other side. It did make me shake. But Joe was at the helm, sir, and I felt that he knew what to be at. Still I couldn’t hedp wishing I was there myself. The young uns are so eager like. She was well out to sea now; and sometimes when she was dow i in the hollows I couldn’t sco anything of her. Next minute, up she’d come rgain, and I got sight of them all. There were four in her. I could make out my boy at the tiller quite plain with the red woollen hand kerchif the mother had made him. He had it around his mouth, for it was bitter cold; and there was Jim Bolter holding the sheet in his hands with a turn round the cleet. “Sometimes they were gunwale under, and it made my heart jump into my mouth; but I didn’t say nothing to the wife, you know. Joe had a steady hand, lie would be sure to carry on just enough and no more, and to luff her up in time. Jim was a good seaman, too; he’d ease off at the right moment, without losing too much way, so as to miss the job; for the lugger was behind them. It was a regular chase, and, as I told you before, sir, it’s the first as gets it.” They were fast nearing tho brig, and I wondered how they would get aboard of her in such a sea; for she was a Spaniard, and they are not over-handy in rough weather. “Joe’s boat was within two cables lengths of the brig and I drew breath more easy, when suddenly the glass nearly fell from my hands. I began to shake all over. Mother!” I cried; ‘0 mother!’ ” “My old woman ran to my side. “ ‘What is it, John?—what is it? Tell me?’ “I tried to steady myself to look again? but I reeled from side to side; everything swam before me It was all in a second. I don’t know .what had happened— whether the sheet had foulded, or what it was; but the galleypunt had capsized. I saw her keel over to leeward, and in stead of righting herself, she seemed to settle down. The peak of the sail show ed water for a moment, and then there was nothing to be seen—noth ing more. The cold gray sea had clos ed over all. “She’s gone, mother—gone. It’s all over!” “‘O John! mercy on us! No, no! not gone, is she?’ “Door thing! I thought she would hare died that minute. She was as white as a ghost. •“Look again, John; look again! 0, quick!’ “But I could not look straight. I was near mad. I tried to steady the glass. The gallypunt was gone; not a stick of her to be seen, and nothing over her but the driving spray and the foam ing waves—nothing, nothing but death “I tried hard to hold the glass straight and I got sight of the lugger with brave No. 17