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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART.
WM. C. RICHARDS, Editor.
Original JJoctrn.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE MAID OF THE FERRY.
BY JACQUES JODRNOT.
At Ferry, on the Iliwassee, I found the boat
01 the north side of the river, but found no ferry
man. After shouting, at the top of my voice,
several times, a young girl, of some fifteen sum
mers, made her appearance, and, in a sweet, mu
sical voice, informed me that the ferryman had
“gone up the river, on a hunting excursion, but
that she could ‘set’ me across.” I looked at her
doubtingly, for a moment, for she was no Amazon,
but a slightly formed and graceful young woman,
with a beautiful face, black, soul-ful eyes—there is
some magic in black eyes—and dark hair, which,
escaping beneath her bonnet, fell in most poetical
ringlets upon her delicate shoulders; but I saw
that she was in earnest, so I stepped into the skiff
with her, and, taking from her hand the pole with
which the craft is usually navigated, pushed it
across the stream. Paying her the usual fee, and
detaining her a few minutes to make some inqui
ries with regard to my route, I proceeded on my
way. When, after having advanced a few rods,
I turned to catch a parting glimpse of my Naiad,
she was in the middle of the stream, managing
her skiff with the dexterity of a sailor.
She is one of those angels incarnate, who occasion
ally cross our paths, when and where wo least ex
pect to meet them, making the way, for a few
brief moments, radiant with beauty and peace,
and infusing into our souls new life and strength
—one of those pure, beautiful ones —
“ Who from Eden wide asfrny,
Iu lowly homes have lost their way.’’
Extract from my Journal.
Ne’er again, my dark eyed maiden,
By Iliwassee’s waters blue,
May I, shouting at tho ferry,
The vision of to-day renew.
This morn thou earnest, like a fairy,
Tripping lightly through the trees —
While thy curls, thy hood escaping,
Frolicked with the mountain breeze.
Transmuted by the power of beauty,
Thy rude boat a palace seemed;
Not the barge of Cleopatra,
With more gorgeous splendor gleamed !
Eyes at Love’s high altar lighted,
’Neath their dusky lashes shine ;
And a smile which, wooing, winneth,
Carolinian maid, are thine.
Blessings on the hour I met thee !
Pleasant memories roun l it (ding ;
Thoughts of Alleghanian highlands,
Thoughts of thee will ever bring.
As Autumn’s flowers, red and golden,
Upon thy river’s blue waves smile —
Waves that pass, (stern law impels them.)
Sadly loves that would beguile:
So the radiance of thy beauty
One moment on my pathway fell —
Passed I then beneath the shadow,
Winding lonely through the dell.
Bless thee, Maiden of the Ferry !
Noble-souled and fond and true
Bo tho man who woos and wins thee,
By Iliwassee’s waters blue.
Humble is thy lot, fair stranger,
Yet I would the power were mine,
To inweave, in verse immortal,
On one page my name and thine !
Bank* of the Hiwassee, N. C., 184 C.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE LIGHT OF HOME.
B T WILLIAM C . RICHARDS.
Mr home, my home, oh, once again
Its charms around my heart arc wove,
I see each sight—l hear each
That tells of joy and breathes of love.
The weary months that I have passed
In exile from this ch rlshed spot,
Had o’er my soul a shadow cast,
Which Pleasure’s Sun could banish r.ot.
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1849.
I felt its chilling touch, and sighe 1
For one whose smile could bid it flee ;
While she was absent from my side—
Life s sunshine was all to me.
The gloom is passed—the shadow fled
Before the blessed light of home ;
Here sweet contentment crowns my head,
Here Care and Sorrow may not come !
Sketches of Clfc.
-i ——-
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE
REDEEMED HOMESTEAD.
BY JACQUES JOURNOT.
“Why so sad, my dear father'?” said a
beautiful, fair-haired girl of sixteen summers,
as she smoothed back the slightly gray locks
from the high but care-marked forehead of
her only living parent, and gazed affection
ately into his dark, expressive eyes. “Why
so sad ?” she repeated, “ you scarcely smile
of late. What is the matter? Shall I not
sing to you that beautiful song which brother
gave me the other day—‘Our home among
the trees V ”
“No, I cannot bear it now,” said her fa
ther, whom we will call Mr. Weston, rising
and pacing the floor, evidently struggling
with some deep emotion.
“ Will you not tell me, your own dear
Ellen, what troubles you ?” persisted the
“maiden.
“Yes, Ellen,” said he, at length, with a
forced calmness, seating himself again at her
side. “Y r es, I will tell you all. Farther
concealment is useless. Prepare yourself for
developments of which you have not even
dreamed. The tale is a painful one, but
must be told.”
Mr. Weston then proceeded to relate the
history of his reverses, his struggles, and the
final ruin of his pecuniary prospects. A few
words will tell the whole. In common with
many others in whom the feelings of human
ity and a sense of justice predominate over
reverence for ihe Almighty Dollar, and whose
consciences rebel in view of the duplicity and
chicanery everywhere practised in trade and
commerce, he had found the struggle—a
struggle in which the beautiful arrangements
of civilized society compelled him to engage
—between him and his less scrupulous neigh
bors, to be an unequal one. With all the
confidence of a noble and generous nature,
he had trusted those around him, had been
decieved, and had lost large sums of money
in consequence. In a word, others secured
their own share and his also. Portion after
portion of his property had been disposed of,
and he had concealed, as much as possible,
the true state of the case from his family,
hoping still to be able to redeem the whole.
All was now gone but the Homestead, the
“ cot where he was born,” and that had been
mortgaged. A small sum in addition to what
he had been able to save from the sale of his
other property, would redeem it, and leave
him still a home; but he saw no way to get
even that small sum, and in a few months,
he said, the “home among the trees” must
be sold!
Ellen listened calmly to all father said.
She was in a measure prepared for the dis
closure. She had for a long time suspected
that the result that was now manifest was
far from improbable. She remained silent
and thoughtful a few minutes, atid then
said :
“I see it all, father ; our case is indeed a
hard one, yet many are worse off than we.
Our home, our dear, loved, beautiful home,
must not, shall not, be sold. I have a plan
which will redeem it. 1 will tell you of it
to-morrow.”
Mr. Weston shook his head incredulously.
“ No, Ellen,’ 5 he replied, “we must reconcile
ourselves to our fate. We must seek a home
elsewhere. Y'our devotion and self-sacrifice
will not avail here.”
“Do not say so, my dear father, till you
hear my plan,” said Ellen.
Ellen’s “plan” for the redemption of the
Homestead, may be inferred from the follow
ing letter:
Lowell, June 21st, 1845.
My Dear Father—l know you are impa
tient to hear from me, and l think I hear Wil
lie say, half in sorrow and half in anger,
‘why don't Ellen write V Well, here you
have a letter. I have waited till pay-day,
that I might give you something in proof of
the practicability of the project which you
deemed so wild. You see by the enclosed
that I have saved a little. Next month I can
save more, as I have learned the work and
shall get higher wages. Do not think I am
robbing myself to send you this. I can get
along very well. Y r ou know I haif plenty of
clothes, and good ones too—thanks io you,
dear father—and though they are not quite
so fashionable as the girls wear here, I am
well satisfied to wear them. You know 1
don’t care much for fashion, besides, I don't
go out much. I get very tired, and do not
feel like going out. I work very hard, and
the days seem so long; but then I am well,
and can bear it all for a while. It is too bad
that we are obliged to toil so hard for just
enough to keep soul and body together, while
those who do none of the work are getting
immensely rich by appropriating to them
scYHe products of our toil. They live in
fine palaces; we are crowded together here
in boarding-houses, six in a room! They
have plenty of time to eat, and drink their
champagne, and .ride in their coaches; we are
obliged to toil thirteen hours a day—have
hardly time to swallow our meals, to say no
thing of eating them, have no time to ride,
and no coaches to ride in if we had time. If
they would give us an opportunity to walk,
we would not complain. I do find, as you
said I would, that in some things connected
with factory life,
“ ’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.”
But do not think that I repent having come
here. Ido not. lam willing to bear this,
and more, to attain the object I have in view.
I am pretty well yet, though I am getting a
little pale. I miss the fresh air and bright
sunshine of my native hills.
lam required by my ‘ Regulation Paper’
to attend some church. I have done so a
few times, but don’t like the meetings here
much. The ministers, they say, get a thou
sand dollars or more a year, but I think they
preach rather dull sermons; and then the fine
pulpit and the frescoed walls, seem to lift
themselves up so between me and God, and
his glad sunshine and free air, that I am all
the time, like an imprisoned bird, pining for
the hill-side and the woods.
My room-mates are good girls, but not
“congenial spirits,’’ so 1 don't enjoy their
company so much. I have formed a very
strong friendship for a young lady from our
own State, who works in the same room, but
boards “on the street.” I wish I could hoard
with her, but my “Regulation Paper” says I
must hoard in one of the Company’s board
ing-houses. They allow her to board on the
street, because her mother lives there. Is it
not too had, that kindred spirits are thus sep
arated, and those who have no affinity for
VOLUME I.—NUMBER 4C.
, each other are forced into contact I But so
it is here.
.
I have seen but little of Lowell yet, and if
■ l had seen more, I have no room left to tell
you about it. Write me a long letter as soon
as you get this, and tell me all about things
at home. How does Mary get along with
the work alone. I guess she would like to
have Ellen to help her a little. Would you
not, Mary I Take good care of everything,
not forgetting Kitty and my flowers. Give
Willie a kiss for me, and tell him to be a
good boy and mind his lessons. Love to
everybody who loves me. God bless you
all. Your affectionate
ELLEN.
Other letters followed this, each containing
a portion of her earnings, and breathing an
earnest and hopeful spirit. In the meantime,
Ellen’s health was fast giving way. She
pined for the freedom and fresh air of the
country. Over-work and the want of the
care and sympathy of those who loved her,
were fast undermining her constitution. —
This was concealed as long as possible from
l her friends; but the secret could not always
be kept. Still she toiled on. The letter from
which the following is an extract, contained
a remittance which completed the required
! sum :
“My object is accomplished. The task
has been a hard one, hut the reward is great.
Our dear, loved, beautiful Home, will not be
sold. Blessings on its trees, its brooks, and
its sunny hill sides. *
lam sick. There is no use in concealing
the fact. I have not been in the mill these
three days, but think I shall be able to go
back to-morrow. I feel that I have injured
my health very much by my labors here, but
hope that the pure air of the country and the
tender nursing that 1 shall have at home, will
restore me. * * * *
I have given my “ notice,” and shall be
ready to start forborne, in about two weeks.”
*****
In the little rural cemetery of M , is
a plain white marble slab, bearing this in
scription :
IN MEMORY
OF
ELLEN WESTON,
WHO DIED MAY 1 5tH, 1846,
AGED 17 YEARS.
“She died for those she loved.”
True, loving hearts, are sad in the Re
deemed Home. Darkness broods upon it.—
Its chief ornament and pride is no more. She
returned to them pale, emaciated, worn out!
All that love could do was done, but iq vain.
When the early violets came forth on the
hill-side, she was laid beneath the sod !
Such is the reward which our so-called
Christian civilization bestows on the holiest
love, and the truest and most earnest devo
tion to duty. Ihe Monopolist who pockets
more than four-fifths of the products of the
poor Factory Girl’s toil, and is guilty, in the
sight of Heaven, of robbery and murder —sits
in the high places of Church ami State, while
the victim of oppression, who receives less
than one-fifth of her real earnings, goes home
to die. uncared for and unthought of by him I
I do not look for the cause of this stfcte of
things in our Factory System., It lies beloAv
this, in a false Social and Industrial organi
zation. While the operatives in the Lowell
Mills get from $1 50 to $2 #0 per week, the
poor Sempstress in Boston or New Y’ork is
making shirts for six and a quarter cents a
piece! The relation of employe: and em
ployed is a false one.
Athens , Georgia.